


Scorched Wings

by ElnaK



Series: From Grace to Blood [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Archangels, Don't Like Don't Read, F/M, Fallen Angels, Gen, JOHN HATERS CAN JUST GO HOME, John Winchester-centric, John is Michael, John's not perfect, but he's just like all of us, true vessels + angels, unless they accept to put their hate on pause
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 47,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9095764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElnaK/pseuds/ElnaK
Summary: Michael hadn't planned to Fall, but it had happened, just one generation before the fated birth of his true vessel.John was in the Pit, when Hell cracked open. He didn't think about it twice: he had to get out of here, before Alastair broke him, and because perhaps, he could help his sons once more. What was truly surprising was the fact that he got out at all, when he was nothing more than another soul on a rack.





	1. That Gate of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know, I won't be making many friends with this story, with all the hate out there.  
> First of all, John Winchester IS NOT my favorite character, but when I saw all the hate, I just turned my Michael-is-Dean idea around, because it was more interesting, and John needs a little help.
> 
> Really, we saw John a maximum of, what, 3 hours perhaps, in more than 200 eps. I don't know how everyone came to hate him that much, when we really don't know much about him.  
> And putting all the evil in the world on John when defending Lucifer or Crowley of all people seems to me to be a bit hypocritical. He didn't try to murder the whole human race, nor to take over Purgatory, did he? Sure, I can defend Lucifer and Crowley, say that they had a difficult childhood and everything, but that doesn't erase everything they did. That only put their actions in perspective.
> 
> I'm not saying that my take on John Winchester is completely canon, only that it's canon-compliant ( I try, if anything ). Many hate stories about John just conveniently forget some canon moments, while highlighting, possibly overreading, some others.  
> I'll try to find the quotes later on, but here to begin with:  
> \- He never hit his sons (says Dean, when they meet the first other kid with demon blood)  
> \- He was there when his sons needed him, perhaps not emotionally, but as in dire situations (says Dean, too)  
> \- He did the best he could with what he had (says Sam, when with past John)
> 
> And, I don't like how some people are ready to excuse some of Dean's and Sam's actions, because they know the circumstances, but can't for the life of them consider that John too had circumstances to deal with, just because the show doesn't say much about it.
> 
> So, if you managed to read the note without cursing me to Purgatory and back, perhaps you'll enjoy this story.  
> If not, sorry for the language, but get the fuck out; I don't want to hear your hate if you're not even going to consider what I just wrote.

Alastair had left only half an hour before.

Possibly. John couldn't exactly tell, down here, in Hell, how much time passed. It felt like decades since he had sold his soul to Azazel, in exchange for Dean's life. It felt as if one century or two had passed with him chained to that rack. It was a long, long time to be tortured.

But was there another option? Not that he knew of.

Alastair, the chief torturer of Hell, came down to John's rack every ten hours approximately, and there he spent one or two hours before leaving to see and torture a bunch of other souls. From time to time, the demon would ask him if he wouldn't rather get down that rack, even at the price of torturing other souls. Even at the price of John becoming a demon himself.

The still-too-human soul didn't see the point.

He had condemned himself to an eternity in Hell, for his son. He had done it, knowing full well what was awaiting him down there. He had done it because it needed to be done.

Not because Dean deserved to live, which was the case, obviously, but still, not for that reason. Not because John had been blissfully ignorant of what was going on down here, because he had known, more so than most people, what a place in Hell really meant. Not because he had thought he could endure, because no one could endure the torture of Hell for eternity.

He had exchanged his soul and life for Dean's survival, because it had to be done. Because someone needed to keep Sam in line, to make sure that his second son wouldn't go down the wrong path, as the demons had planned. Because someone needed to be there if it happened nonetheless, and Sam needed to be killed. Because John knew what was happening down here, and he would never let either of his sons damn themselves to what he was currently enduring. Because he wouldn't let his son become a demon, even if it meant that Sam had to die; Sam would be better off in Heaven than on Earth, living but according to the demons' plans, anyway.

John would rather be the one paying the ultimate price, here in Hell, even if it meant that he should be seen as the villain who had ordered his oldest son to kill his younger brother.

He'd have liked to have some more time to explain, but Azazel hadn't given him such an opportunity. And perhaps he hadn't said enough to Dean. Perhaps his son would understand an order, when he had only been stating the facts, that John wasn't going to sacrifice the world for either of his sons, not with the guilt such an act always brought, not on the one who sacrificed, but on the ones who had been saved so. Perhaps he should have said something nicer to Dean, something else than that there wasn't anything that mattered besides keeping Sam in the right path, but then he wouldn't have the time to say what was the most important.

John was aware that he hadn't been very comforting in his last moments. But try it, and only then could you judge. When you have only a few more seconds to live, you can't afford to be picky over your choice of words. And he hadn't exactly had much time for a better explanation.

There were many things John Winchester regretted in his life. And if not having been able to say more was something he regretted, he did not regret having chosen this amongst all the things he could have said. Sparing Dean's feelings served no purpose if it got the boy killed.

John'd rather be the hated father of two living sons than the perfect father of two deceased children.

It hadn't been easy, all these years, but he had managed to keep them alive and give them the keys to survival in a world that he knew wouldn't leave the kids alone. If he hadn't been quite the best father as a result, so be it. The best father, who was always there for his children and supported them and did everything with a bright smile, it wasn't him. The best father in the eyes of society, though, John was quite certain that man wouldn't have been to keep his sons alive and clear from Hell's plans.

The human soul chuckled bitterly on his rack, blood dripping slowly, evenly, from his sliced mouth, as he remembered all the times people had looked at him with that judgmental glint in their eyes, even the people from the hunting community. As if they'd have done any better.

Maybe the other hunters had a choice to go back to a normal life and live as if the supernatural didn't exist. Maybe they could pretend it was all a nightmare, or perhaps they could simply take care of what was lurking in the shadows around their town, while innocents people died in other places. Maybe it was the case, for them.

But it wasn't the case for the Winchesters.

During the first years after Mary's death, John hadn't simply wanted revenge. Sure, he wouldn't have said no to crucifying Azazel and turning him into minced meat, but it wasn't what had been motivating him to learn about the supernatural side of the world. What had really brought him into hunting, was the mere idea that there were things, out there, that he knew nothing about, and that they could very well attack Dean and Sam too, one day, and then, he'd have no idea of what to do.

John had done his best to take care of his sons alone, and to research the lore without really going out there, at first. He wasn't suicidal, and not everything in the hearsay was reliable. He wasn't going to go and hunt monsters and ghosts until he could really take care of those with only a minimal risk of dying and leaving the kids alone.

It hadn't been exactly easy.

Then one day, he had met a family of hunters. The wife had helped with the boys, the husband had taught him a few tricks of the business. He had really started to go after the things in the dark around Sam's third birthday. Then the Winchesters had moved on.

He had met Bobby, the Harvelles, Elkins, and a few others. He had learned more and more, to be able to defend his sons if needs be. Yet with each monster he got, with each threat that disappeared, his stomach clenched a bit more. There were so many evils out there, so many monsters and curses, that he knew he would never master them all, defeat them all. There was bound to be one who'd escape his vigilance, one he wouldn't be able to stop before it was too late.

And the sights he had seen over the years, the dripping blood, the dead bodies, the mutilated children and the women dried of their blood, it was always worse. There was always a new horror to find about. There was always another morbid show he could imagine with his sons as the main victims.

It terrified him.

John had learned and hunted more, and more, and more, not only because he wanted to avenge Mary, but also, but mainly because with each evil he took out, it was one less that could befall upon his sons.

He hadn't always been kind and present for his children, he knew that. He had tried to be, but it hadn't always been easy, not when he looked at the sleeping kids when he woke up, and his first thought was that he wasn't sure they were still alive.

Then one day, as he had been trying to find a missing girl, taken away by fairies, as he had understood later on, Sam had seen him talk to the girl's younger sister, crying. The motel had been only two houses over the family's house, and perhaps it had been a mistake to stay here, but the point was, Sam had seen him, and when John had come back to the motel, the boy had asked his father what it had been about. Of course, he hadn't said the whole truth. Just that the girl's sister had disappeared.

Sam had asked him if John could help the family. He had said he was trying to. And Sam had asked him to please, save her.

John had never found the older girl. No one ever came back from being taken by fairies.

Then it hadn't been only about making sure that Dean and Sam would live. It had been about saving as many people as he could, too.

Perhaps John had a bit of a hero complex. He wouldn't deny it, if it was the case. But what else was he supposed to do? Ignore the truth, ignore the people who got hurt every day, ignore the fact that the demons were after his second son? Pretend that everything was alright? Act as if one day, they weren't going to come back for Sam?

The normal people, even the other hunters, they had no idea of what he had to deal with. They could criticize him as much as they wanted, it wouldn't change the facts. John had been dealt a poor hand at the cards of life; he was just trying to do his best, even when it wasn't easy. Perhaps he wasn't the easiest person to deal with, but he had never given up.

He had also never told anyone about what he had learned, years after years, from various demons. About what he had found out, about Sam's destiny. Bobby would have said he was going paranoid, or that he was making himself a victim; and that was only Bobby, who wasn't completely obtuse.

What was the point in telling the Winchesters secrets, when no one would believe him? John'd rather be the villain of this story, bear the weight of the few things he knew, and let the others think he was a bastard, if it allowed his sons to keep a bit of hope.

Sam had always wanted a normal life. If John suceeded in killing Azazel, perhaps his son would have gotten his normal life without ever knowing why exactly the demon had had to die. It didn't matter if Sam thought he was the worst father in the world, if it meant that he could live.

Obviously, it hadn't happened that way.

The yellow-eyed demon hadn't died, and John was in Hell.

Alastair came to visit every ten hours or so.

That was John's world, now.

He couldn't care less about Alastair's offer, to get off the rack. John had no desire to go and torture another soul, not when he already had much to reproach himself. Yes, the torture hurt. If he had a better choice, he'd chose not to endure it. He didn't have a better choice.

The trick wasn't to endure, though. Eternity was a long time, and rejecting the offer out of nobility could only work for so long, when in the hands of Alastair. No, John wasn't enduring, not per se.

He was there, being tortured, and that was all. There was no point stopping it, if it was to further damage himself, though in another way. He'd rather be on the rack.

The other souls didn't seem to see that, strangely.

Either way, Alastair had left John's rack for about half an hour when the whole of Hell shook like in an earthquake. John looked up, slowly, ever so slowly that several drops of blood rolled down his cheeks before his eyes fell on the large rift of light, far away and above.

The demons working on the other racks looked up too, and for a blessed moment, no scream was to be heard in the Pit. They were all looking up, at the crack of pure light.

A whisper. It was all it took.

“A Gate is open, my friends!”

Pretty much every demon in Hell then rushed to the gate, eager to go to Earth without having to use the normal channels. The tremors had broken down several jails of exorcism, where the demons who had been exorcised ended up, even the strongest ones. They were all on their way to Earth. The ones who'd manage to get out would be free until the next exorcism.

The souls on the racks watched, but they didn't seem to understand what was going on. John wondered why. It wasn't that hard to figure out.

But what really mattered to him, right now, was that the rift called to him too. No demons were left to watch after the souls, which wasn't all that surprising. They were tied up on their racks, after all.

John still had to look after his sons, up there. Maybe he couldn't be the perfect father, and maybe he couldn't solve all their problems, but he would do the best he could.

There was no point in wasting such an opportunity.

He didn't pay much attention to how the chains came loose, to how he somehow managed to get down the rack. His mind was occupied with only one thought: to get up there, and out of here. He had a feeling that whatever had happened to open that Gate of Hell, his sons were right in the middle of it. It made sense, somehow.

Almost as if he was supposed to know that.

A demon, a bit late in the rush to Earth, caught sight of the wandering soul. His instincts were contradictory, between going upside, and taking care of the soul. But he recognized John Winchester's soul, and he decided it'd be more satisfactory to get him back on his rack. Besides, the bright light that still came from the tainted soul was upsetting him.

“Where do you think you are...”

The soul turned to look at the demon, and the demon took a step back.

The soul's eyes had flickered golden, for an instant. Like Azazel's. But the demon had other, more important things to deal with right now.

Because apparently, the soul knew how to use its energy, which was very unusual unless for witches. The soul also was very, very strong. Stronger than any soul the demon had ever seen. The soul's right hand closed onto the demon's throat, and it hurt like hell.

“Take me to the Gate.”

 


	2. Identity crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to inform you: french author, so, errors. And, like everyone else, typos too.

John's non-existent head, because Hello, ghost?, hurt. Despite not having any materiality, his head hurt. Just like, despite being nothing more than a soul, the torture had hurt.

Oddly, though, John didn't find himself minding the pain all that much.

It hurt, but he wasn't really noticing it. He had things to do, and his mind was only focused on this goal. If he had been a bit more lucid, maybe he could have said that it was as if another him, another part of his mind was trying to gain control back, but not succeeding. As if, strangely, he was acting on a knowledge he wasn't supposed to have, yet that was there, deep under the layers of his mind.

Wondering where that knowledge came from, and trying to access it hurt. So he only moved according to what his instincts told him to do. He'd figure out how he had known what to do latter on.

Because for now, the demon had dropped him in the middle of a graveyard, before disappearing somewhere to the East, possibly in search of a meatsuit. John Winchester, as a consequence, was no more than a lost soul in the middle of a graveyard where dozens of demons were crawling out of a Devil's Gate. And a soul without a body in the living world was nothing more than a ghost.

John couldn't help but think he was alarmingly comfortable with being bodyless, as if he had done it before.

Pain flashed in his mind, and he let go of the idea. He had more important things to do, and he knew a reaper wouldn't be long in coming for him, offering to lead him to his rightfull place of rest. The first time around, his deal with Azazel had ruled out the intervention of a reaper, but this time...

John had to act before the reaper came around. With some luck, the abundance of demons in the area would forestall Death's arrival... But why was he so certain Death himself would come for him? Why did he even know how exactly the whole reaper business wen...

Pain.

Let it go.

John refocused on his current objective: finding Dean and Sam, and possibly keeping them safe if he could. How he knew that his sons were here, in this graveyard, because they could only be around the Gate of Hell's opening, he didn't question. He had a feeling that questioning this certitude would only bring him more pain. He didn't have the time to deal with pain.

The soul of John Winchester forced itself to stand back up on its intangible feets, using the Gate's framing to lean on as it almost stumbled in the grass and dirt.

He looked up and around.

As he had already known, he was in a graveyard. The Devil's Gate was behind him, and as much as he wanted to close it, to prevent more demons from getting out, he couldn't do anything in his current, immaterial state. A demon pushed him out of the Gate's frame.

And John's eyes fell on a scene he did not like one bit.

He couldn't manage to think, really, at this point. The most random thought triggered more pain, so he simply stopped thinking anything beyond the bare minimum.

As a result, the wandering soul didn't exactly process what was happening, nor did he try to understand the exact situation. What he saw was enough, really. Ellen and Bobby were there. Sam was here. And more importantly, Dean was here too, with Azazel. Azazel was threatening his oldest son. Azazel was about to kill his oldest son.

_But the oldest son is the strongest, you should know that, Michael._

The thought flashed with pain in his mind, and John only took the time to wonder if it had been a memory, or something else. He could tell he was the one to have “said” these words, he recognized his own “voice”. He didn't know who was this Michael he had apparently been talking to, though.

It wasn't the time for that.

Dean was in danger.

And even if John had no idea how he knew what to do to tap into the energy from his own soul, he still knew how to do it. And, really, right now, it was all that mattered. It allowed him to act, perhaps to help.

Dean needed help.

In the blink of an eye, the soul of John Winchester, a true ghost for the moment, became visible. It cost him much energy to make himself somewhat tangible, but it was worth it. If saving one of his sons hadn't been worth it, what would be?

Azazel didn't notice him, too busy “taking care” of Dean. Ellen, on the other hand, might have gotten a glimpse of John Winchester's ghost, just before he disappeared. She'd have thought she had been mistaken...

...If the ghost hadn't reappeared right behind the yellow-eyed demon.

John grabbed the demon around the chest, not to let go. He'd hold on as long as necessary, be it for his sons and his friends to get away, or for Dean to take a shot at Azazel. If his son had gotten the Colt back...

Azazel felt the cold embrace of a ghost on his meatsuit's body, and turned his head slightly to get a look at the foolish ghost who was trying to restrain him. He was only half surprised to see John Winchester's soul clinging onto him, even if he did wonder how the ghost had gotten off his rack. If anything, with the Winchester tenacity, it made more sense than if it had been any other ghost.

What truly puzzled the demon, though, was that the ghost was actually succeeding in restraining him. Only ghosts with decades of experience in the living world could do that, and none to a demon as powerful as himself. John Winchester hadn't spent half a second upstairs since his death, and he could do that? How?!?

Azazel didn't pay attention to the cocking of a gun in Dean Winchester's direction, not even when he knew it to be the Colt. A gun which could kill him.

He couldn't manage to get away from the ghost.

There was a short moment, between the sound of the Colt being fired, and the moment the bullet entered Azazel's skull, when something flickered in the ghost's eyes. For a split second, Azazel could have sworn that John Winchester's eyes had gone the same golden yellow as his own. A yellow that didn't exist in any other demon, and that Azazel himself couldn't explain. He had always been like that, always yellow-eyed, and he had no idea why. After his crossroad deal, he should have been just another soul for Hell to corrupt, but...

The words were whispered, and perhaps the demon felt something stir, deep in his core, in his rotten soul. It felt ancient, highly different from what he was, and yet, it felt like him.

The words were said by the ghost, but they didn't sound like John Winchester, not exactly. They sounded more ancient, and yet much like the broken soul who had said them.

“ _This is my family, brother.”_

Azazel took no time to wonder about the choice of words, because he had no time to think about the last word.

The demon's meatsuit fell to the ground, as the bullet from the Colt destroyed the demon inside. In a matter of seconds, Azazel, Regent of Hell, was gone.

A demon was only a corrupted soul, and souls were immortal, indestructible. When a demon died, their soul was purified and finally allowed in Heaven. John, as he had gotten used to during the last minutes, didn't take time to ponder how he knew that.

It was weird enough that, somewhere, deep inside his core, he felt relieved, not only that Azazel was gone, and thus unable to harm his family anymore, but also that the true Azazel, rid of the corruption from his demonic condition, was finally at rest.

John's ghost looked at Dean for a moment, at Sam, too, and he tried to give them a reassuring smile.

But the wandering soul flickered out of visibility, exhausted.

John would have stayed, and watched his sons, and perhaps he'd have tried to be visible again, to talk to them, if he had been able to. But the Devil's Gate was closed, the escaped demons had scampered away, and his reaper, or perhaps Death himself, would soon be there for him.

A small part of John's soul wanted to wait and accept the offer of rest.

Another, more important, more obnoxious part was screaming at the smaller part that he had to stay here, again, for as long as Dean and Sam would need protection. That he couldn't accept to rest in peace while his sons were in danger. That he had to do something.

That he didn't deserve peace in Heaven, with Mary, if it was at the price of leaving the kids alone.

But what could he do? Refusing the reaper's offer would mean becoming a true ghost, stuck on the earthly plane until the bitterness and the rage took him over, until he became a malevolent spirit like so many ghosts he had put to rest, until, perhaps, he ended up hurting the very sons he wanted to protect. Until someone, somehow, managed to put him to rest forcefully.

It wasn't a solution.

The louder, larger part of his soul that claimed he had to stay here suddenly went quiet, as if listening to another voice, another part, deeply hidden, but present, this part of him that John couldn't pinpoint without it hurting.

He did it unconsciously, but he did it nonetheless; the ghost's head turned slowly to the South, where something old, something familiar was calling to him.

_If you need a way to stay here, in the material world, without going mad, why don't you go to claim it back, John? It's just there, you know it, and you need it. You want it back, John, because without it you are only a man, and you cannot protect your children. You want it back, John, because unlike Azazel, unlike Anna, you didn't part with it willingly to begin with. Go and take it back, John._

The reaper was coming, the ghost knew it. He didn't have much time. He had to...

_You need to be Michael again._

A choice had to be made.

The ghost tapped into his own soul, and flickered out of the graveyard, away from his sons, to what was calling to him. He didn't know what it was, not really, but some part of him could just tell that it was what he needed to protect his children. He felt as if he had forgotten something important, something crucial, that was still present, behind a closed door of his memory, and that it concerned the pain, the urge to go South, and to find it, to claim it again, even though he had no idea what it was, truthfully. Its nature was sealed away with his missing memories.

But it was important.

John needed it to help Dean and Sam.

Travelling through two whole states, and perhaps freaking the hell out of a couple of people as he flickered in and out of existence from one place to another, the ghost quickly ended up at the very location where the pull came from.

John looked around.

He was in a forest, and right before his eyes was a massive tree, some of its roots disppearing in a limpid pond. The water almost seemed to glow with the reflection of the stars. And on the grass, sitting against the tree, was a thin man, looking at him.

Waiting for him.

“I thought you'd come here, Micheal.”

The ghost took a step back, despite the urge to touch the tree he was experiencing. The being looked like a man, but he was much more than that, he could tell. Apparently he had been right when guessing that Death would come in person.

“ _My name is John. Why would you call me anything else?”_

Death stared at the wandering soul for a moment, as if weighing the pros and the cons.

In the end, he simply spoke, and John didn't get to know what Death had been thinking about while looking at him like that.

“Obviously, John. But you aren't here to speak of your identity crisis, are you?”

John's eyes wandered back to the massive tree, and when the ghost regained consciousness of his actions, only one meter was between him and the tree. One meter, and Death's cane.

“Do you really want to do that, Michael?”

For a moment the ghost stared back at Death without blinking. Then his face twisted slightly, his eyes swirled to a golden yellow.

“ _Do I have a choice?”_

Death stared at the eyes that only a fallen angel, turned human, and who had spent time in Hell, could have, for a moment, before he lowered his cane.

“This will make for an interesting story, to be sure. Your Father certainly didn't intend for it to take this turn, and yet here we are. The truth is, you are too much like him, Michael. And obviously, your own first son is also too much like you for God's plans not to be disrupted.”

 

 


	3. Askance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so...  
> I'm kind of doing the warnings bit by bits, you know, once every chapter until I run out of warnings, so that you don't get a very huge and bothersome author note to read before one chapter.
> 
> This story starts at the very end of season 2, and it will pan out to the end of season 5 ( while going moderately AU ), and including details from later seasons... But most of the story will be in season 5. For season 3 and 4, some things will happen, but not that much.  
> The reason being, as you'll see with this chapter, that John doesn't just become Micheal again.  
> I read a bunch of fallen Michael stories ( Dean-is-Michael stories ), and each times the memories all came back just like that, hop-you-got-your-grace-back,-and-so-you're-complete... And I'm like, sure, why not, but does it have to be this way? The only canon got-your-grace-back we got was Anna's, and she had gotten her memories back beforehand. Nothing says it has to come back to John as soon as he got Michael's grace back...

John wasn't sure of anything anymore.

Hell, he wasn't even sure of who he was.

The last thing he remembered was talking to the thin man near the tree. What had happened afterwards, he knew, but he didn't actually remember. He couldn't see the scene, couldn't hear the sounds even if he had been there, only as if he had been watching a movie... Yet, he had been there.

He had spoken to the man, he had walked to the tree, he had put his hands on the bark, but all these actions, he couldn't for the life, or really, death of him, remember ever making them.

What he knew, right now, was that he felt really different from just a moment before. He didn't feel like a ghost, and the energy he had had, closed off in his soul, he could feel it seeping through his being. In fact, and perhaps that was what was disturbing him the most, he didn't feel like a human soul anymore.

Even demons or monsters started off human, and John's mind helpfully supplied that it felt in their soul. His mind was being weirdly helpful, lately, with abolutely no explanation as to how.

What he was, right now...

It did feel like John Winchester, but it did not feel human at all. But John Winchester was human... Or, at least, he had been, and it should be present in his... Was it even a soul anymore, at this point?

It truthfully made no sense.

The pain was gone, the headache was calming down, and the oddly familiar presence at the back of his mind that had reached out since he had gotten off the rack, was silent. Present, but silent.

If John had to venture a guess, he'd say it had been as if, weakened by being a bodiless soul out in the mortal realm, a backdoor had been pushed ajar, though kept closed enough by a security door chain, in his mind and memories. Only, he saw no reason why he'd have anything like repressed memories, and he seriously hoped it wasn't his as-of-yet unknown split personality saying “Hi!”. He did not have the time to deal with having a split personality.

So far, John felt good, even if weirdly so. No reaper in sight to force him into Heaven, no growing and ghostly anger. So far, so good.

Sadly, whatever he was now couldn't look at himself in a mirror and say, “Hey, I recognize you, you're that one mystical creature!”. So, he was stuck ignoring what he was. Which didn't bode all that well, really.

Never before had John Winchester thought he'd see the day he'd consider himself anything else than human. And, if he had, he'd have surmised he'd at least know what he was supposed to be, in order to gank himself efficiently, perhaps.

Not that he'd do that now, even if he had had the slightest idea on how to achieve that. He had decided to stay in the mortal world for a reason: to try and help Dean and Sam. Now that he was, somehow, stable, he could work on that... Even if he had no idea how to.

John forced himself to breathe in and out, longly, even if he apparently didn't need to, especially considering he didn't have a body. In fact, he didn't even know how he did breathe, because no body supposedly meant nothing to breathe with. But he could say for sure that whatever and however he was doing, it made him feel just like after a long breathe-in,-breathe-out.

He needed to think clearly.

First thing first, he had to know what he was capable of in this state. Because all the things he had done during his little trip out of Hell and to this forest, he knew he had done it, but he had no idea how. Just as the backdoor was now closed back, he couldn't access that seemingly instinctive knowledge and skills. He literally felt as if everything from the last minutes, or hour, perhaps?, had been scrubbed clean with whatever his possibly-a-split-personality had done with the tree.

…And perhaps it would be great if he figured out where he was right now, too.

Just in case he actually planned to join his sons at some point in the story.

_You can't._

John stumbled, or did something as close as possible to stumbling with no actual body, under the jabbing pain. Whatever it could be called, it even left him a bit breathless.

And it seemed the presence in the back of his mind hadn't gone totally silent, finally. More like, it was keeping its strength to tug at the backdoor in alarm if it thought there was something it should prevent from happening.

It also sounded disturbingly like himself.

In fact, John was beginning to think it trully was a part of him, locked away. He may not really remember what had happened when the other one had taken over during the last minutes, but he could say he had never felt... invaded. He may even have the feeling it was just as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, then put back down; a veil that could keep what the other one saw separate from his own, human memories.

If he was to be reunited with a forgotten part of himself, he really hoped he wasn't going to be mostly erased by the other one. Good point, that was the feeling he had right now. Bad point, he had no idea if all the weird feelings and knowledge he had come to sense in the last hour or so actually meant something.

For all that, John still felt as if the other one wasn't hidding from him, but, more like resting... Or perhaps there was no “other one”, but only some things he needed to remember, painfully, slowly, just like when you wake up from a dream, and you don't immediately have everything about your situation in mind.

But he could trust his “gut” feelings all he wanted, he wasn't going to let Dean and Sam on their own, again, just because some belligerent thought had wandered off and told him he couldn't.

Couldn't what, for a start?

His head as clear as it'd get for now, John moved his way out of the forest, as if he had been a normal human being going for a walk in an unknown forest in the middle of the night.

Alright, maybe not that normal, but still.

He ended up on the side of a road, which he followed for a time. The night was dark, the road was free of vehicles, and the only clue he had about his current location was “rural USA”. So helpful.

He was walking with no true purpose, there, he eventually acknowledged it.

For the first time in years, John Winchester had no idea what to do, besides taking care of his children, and as it was, he had no idea how to do that either. He wasn't even sure of what he currently was, and from that he doubted his own skills.

It had never been easy, taking care of Dean and Sam, not since Mary's death. But at least he had had a goal; first, learn how to defend the boys; then, destroy the thing who killed Mary, and may come back for Sam; eventually, keep the demons away. Not easy, sure, but simple.

He walked for miles, without ever getting tired. And eventually he got sight of a small, rural american town. The sun was poking from the other side of the Earth. The night had passed.

Even from where he was, John could see a man walking out of his house and in the rising sun. The stranger stretched, and turned around in the general direction of the country road.

For half a second, John wondered if he could even be seen, considering he was as immaterial as a ghost, and wasn't particularly trying to make himself material. He did know he wasn't a ghost, but he didn't know what he was, once again. Perhaps he was only a wandering spirit, and had truly stayed around for nothing, unable to help, unable to change anything, only able to witness the misery that was going to befall his sons...

The man squinted at the road. He looked like he was looking at something in particular. Something, or someone, like, say, John Whinchester, walking to the town at dawn, and coming from nowhere in particular. Weird scene, if one must ask.

John's absent heart jumped in his metaphorical chest. The stranger didn't seem to really see him, but from the look on his face, he had, in fact, noticed the presence of something.

He took one more step in the direction of the man, and focused on being here, present, visible. He needed to know where he stood right now, and even one hint would be welcome.

That was the moment the stranger's eyes started to bleed.

Panic as the man blinked, slowly, and a crimson tear fell down his right cheek. Panic, again, always, forever perhaps, as John realized that whatever he was, his proximity was no good to humans.

His sons were humans.

“ _No, not that!”_

It escaped his mouth without his consent, really, but eitherway he'd have said it. And what he heard then, wasn't a human voice. It was his voice alright, it sounded just like him, but if he paid enough attention, he could tell it wasn't on the human frequency of speech.

Or perhaps, it was the way the ground trembled at his voice, the way the man clutched at his ears as soon as John spoke. He was far away, and perhaps hadn't heard that much, hadn't seen that much of what John now was, but the mere sight and voice of the hunter had been enough to hurt the man.

Panic took over, and John followed what his instincts were telling him: to get the hell away from this town, and perhaps leave a chance of survival to the stranger he had just wounded by his sole presence. In the blink of an eye, he was laying in the grass in the middle of nowhere, not too far away from the forest, and far enough from any kind of human life. Some place where he wasn't likely to hurt anyone.

John thought back to the presence in his mind, the thing that told him he was still missing a piece of the puzzle. Apparently, when he let his instincts react instead, he had no problem using his yet-to-discover skills. It comforted him in the idea that no, he wasn't being possessed by an unknown entity, and it was really him, down there, hidding... Healing?

That was, however, the only comfort he found.

He had to face the facts: he wasn't human, right now, and his mere presence was a threat to humans. His children were human. There was nothing he could do to help them.

Absolutely nothing.

If he hadn't been about to cry, John'd probably have laughed.

He had become one of those monsters he had tracked for about twenty years. Not only was he dangerous, but he couln't even try and pass himself off as a human being. John Whinchester, supernatural threat! What a laugh...

He stayed there, in the grass, for a long, long time. Such a long time that several days, several weeks perhaps, he wasn't sure exactly, time didn't seem the same anymore, passed before he realized: he may not be able to help the boys, but perhaps he could hinder the demonic side of the upcoming war. If he could get his hands on Lilith... Granted, he had no idea what to do if he actually stumbled on a demon, but considering the human reaction to his presence, he held some hopes that it'd affect demons just as much.

It wasn't as if they could kill him again if nothing happened, was it?

Unaware of the passing of time, or, at least, only vaguely aware of it, John started to move across the states, always using the paths where no one was likely to go, unwilling to hurt anyone else. He didn't sleep, eat or drink, but walked from one point to another, as soon as demonic activity was reported. He tried to think of a way to help other than that... but nothing came to mind.

The first demon he killed, he did it by letting his repressed memories take over. In an instant, he was standing behind the demon, both his hands on the possessed man's temples. The other one started an exorcism to expulse the demon. The meatsuit had been more than done for a few weeks already, if the closed but still very lethal gunshot wound on his forehead was anything to go by. There was no point trying to save the host. And, really, the man would be better off in Heaven than here, possessed by a demon.

It lasted only a few seconds; the man's eyes burst out, the demon soul and the host's soul whirled for an instant in the sky, a reaper appeared to led them to Heaven, and it was done.

The reaper did look askance at John, though.

Then again, John didn't care. Now he was certain no reaper would try to make him leave, and surely that was all that mattered. It at least allowed him to hunt demons, with efficiency at that. And every demon that died at his hands was one the kids would not encounter.

He wished there was more he could do, he wished he could go and talk to Dean, to Sam, tell them, if not everything, at least a bit more. Explain to Dean why his last words had been about killing Sam if things went too far, explain that he didn't want it to happen, and that was why Dean needed to protect Sam, so that it wouldn't come to that...

But the stranger had been enough of a warning. He couldn't talk to his sons, not while in this state. And even if he was right and he could actually talk to Dean, not that he knew why, but he felt it nonetheless, he still wasn't going to risk Sam. Dean would hear him, he knew, but Sam wouldn't.

 


	4. From behind the wall

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.

John couldn't feel the difference in time, not really. It wasn't that everything was going too slow or too fast, or that there were times he'd black out, no, not at all. Perhaps it had something to do with him not needing to sleep anymore, about not needing any kind of survival schedule at all.

Time simply didn't seem to matter that much anymore, as if a week, a month was nothing to him.

He wandered around the world in a state of ignorance, to the point it sometimes frightened him a bit. One instant he was above Chicago, watching the city from the clouds, not totally sure how he knew the way up there, but thankful that, unlike his sealed memories, his knowledge of his own skills was getting there, somehow. Another moment, he was in the deserted mountains of China, thinking about what the hell these hidden memories could be, and totally not wondering why he had come to China to think about it in the first place.

John had really wanted to go and help Dean and Sam, and once, he had been able to. A group of demons had been laughing about Lilith, and oh, how he hated that one! - about Lilith's latest stunt, and then one had offered to go and take a look, to poke at the famous Winchesters one last time before Lilith gutted the youngest and before the oldest...

And the demon hadn't gotten to say any more, because one not-so-ghostly John Winchester had been around and had heard everything.

Saying that the group of demons had been butchered would be putting it lightly.

But that was only one time.

John still wasn't able to go anywhere near a human being without harming them, and he wouldn't risk his sons' life, not even to help them. It would be counterproductive, if anything.

So far, what he did know was that humans and monsters alike, since monsters were only altered humans, were unable to stand his presence. Demons were hurt, but not destroyed unless he actively smote them. And pagan gods had a hard time withstanding his presence, but it wasn't impossible for them; of course, they still died if he killed them. Ghosts mostly ignored him, but backed away whenever he'd come close. Reapers always shot him a dirty look, before disappearing without a word, but he could almost sense their agreement to keep his existence a secret.

A secret from who, from what, he didn't know. It wasn't as if they took the time to explain what was happening to him, after all. He'd have appreciated if they did, though. Especially as they were the only ones who were completely undisturbed by his presence.

The few times he saw one, too, it felt as if he was looking at a very distant, very different cousin, but a cousin nonetheless. Moreover, he had a feeling that if he looked at them the right way, if he allowed himself to see something else than the first layer of the world, he'd see that one hint he needed to remember. Just like he could see both the human meatsuit and the demon overlaying it when someone was possessed. The problem being, if he knew how to look at the demons, he had no idea how to look properly at the reapers, and once again, the answer to his questions slipped away.

He wasn't too worried about that, though, because as his other supernatural skills, this one would surely come back at some point, and then, Tadaa! - he'd have his answer.

John really missed his body.

If he could get his body back, he knew he wouldn't have the bleeding-eardrums,-bursting-eyes problems anymore. Why, he wasn't sure, again. But he knew it.

To be down there, on the mortal plan, John needed a body. And the only body that could possibly withstand what he was, now, was his own, because it had been made for his use only, like a tailored suit. His own body would be perfect.

He definitely locked away the disgusting thought that Dean's body was just like that tailored suit, too. It had come to his mind at some point, a few weeks ago, from the memories behind the closed door. If he had a body, John figured he'd want to puke.

That was also the first time he sincerely thought something had gone awry, decades ago, and that this situation he was in? - he wasn't supposed to be living it. The story wasn't following the words anymore. Something had gone terribly wrong, and now, he was here, when he wasn't supposed to be here, when he was supposed to be somewhere else, to be someone else.

Of all the things that could have happened, this was the last he'd have ever thought possible. Him, here, now, father of Dean Winchester of all people! Sam's too, for the matter, because it meant that Sam's uncle was... The thought never managed to make it complete to his consciousness, and he only knew all this was wrong and terribly ironic, without being able to explain why, but the feeling was there, and it wouldn't go away.

Thoughts of Adam sometimes made it through the wall in his mind, too, and just as incomplete as the thoughts about Dean and Sam. He had the disturbing impression that Adam was a bit of a wonder, that his existence was quite a surprise, and that he should link it to someone else, another “uncle”,...

Adam was safely living a normal life, and if the kid was just a bit lucky, he would never cross path with the supernatural. Most people didn't, or at least didn't directly.

It hurt a bit every time John thought about the secrets that had come with his discovery of his third son, but he couldn't have sentenced a child to living the same life as his two other sons, not when Adam didn't have a demon target painted on his back, unlike his elder brothers. Or, really, unlike Sam, but it wasn't as if Dean would have agreed to be left behind, at Bobby's for example, while Sam and John would have been moving around the country, always trying to lose the demon tails who followed Sam around. One way or another, John had only had one choice when it came to Adam: secrets.

As always.

What other choice did he have, really? He couldn't tell either of his children why some things had to be kept secret, because that'd be giving the secret away. And only the secrets protected them, if only a little. Only the secrets assured no demon had ever gone to the Milligans' door. Only the secrets made Sam's attempt at a real life worth the effort. Only the secrets allowed Dean not to despair too much about what couldn't be changed.

John could tell how Dean would have reacted, had he known the truth about the demons after Sam sooner. John knew, because Dean was exactly like him, and Heaven, didn't that make an awful lot of sense, now?

“Who is like God?”, or, perhaps, he who is like God; just, not so much. The archangel Michael was much like his Father, just, less powerful, not quite omnipotent. John's son was much like his father, just, less powerfull, human.

John blinked at the thought – That is, he did the closest thing to blinking in his bodyless condition. Where had that come from? Or, scratch that, he did know where the thought about the archangel Michael had come from, because each time he thought of something he had no business thinking about, it came from behind the wall. What he really wondered about, right now, was what Michael had to do with Dean and himself.

Another thought nudged at John's mind, though, and he had the feeling it was a maneuver of misdirection, to get him to think about something else. And for all he knew about said misdirection, it didn't keep him from falling for it.

He followed the thread of attention to a small town, a small church in Ohio, because it hadn't come from him, and he was intrigued.

He couldn't quite hear the thought, but he felt it was adressed to him.

It wasn't the first time that happened, to be truthful. He hadn't noticed right away, frankly, but there was something like a background noise in his ears all the time. A bit as if someone had forgotten to turn off the radio, but on the other side of the house. It was just the same thing as with the reapers: for them, he wasn't looking at them the right way; for this, he wasn't listening to it the right way.

If it had been exactly the same thing as always, John wouldn't have reacted. He heard that background noise all the time, and he mostly ignored it, he even forgot about it at times.

But this time, it was different.

It sounded just the same as the others, true. Blurred, far away, and not listened to the right way.

But there was more; the thought, even if he couldn't get what it said, the thought sounded more familiar than the others. John almost recognized himself in it. Just... just a familiar accent.

Which made him very, very curious.

He hesitated a bit as he hovered in the night sky of Ohio. No one was out right now. He didn't think his presence would hurt anyone, not as long as they weren't looking at him. And they, whoever his possible victims may be, weren't out there anyway, so...

The next moment, he was standing in the church, where someone had lit a couple of candles despite the late hour. The thought came from here, he was certain. It came from...

John took a silent, immaterial step back as his eyes fell upon a red-haired young woman who was silently praying on a pew. He shouldn't have come here. He was yet again about to hurt someone. He couldn't say a word, or her eardrums would burst. He couldn't warn her not to look in his direction, just the time for him to get out, not that asking someone not to look ever worked. He just hoped she wasn't going to turn around before he left.

It really wouldn't take long to leave. Just one thought, the will to be somewhere else, and the young woman wouldn't be in danger anymore. One instant only.

John's gaze lingered on the stranger, as he wondered why her thoughts seemed this familiar to him, why he was even hearing them, kind off. He wanted to walk to her, and ask her. He couldn't, obviously, but he...

No. He needed to leave.

Even if the memories behind the door were telling him she wouldn't risk anything, just like that Dean wouldn't be endangered by his father's presence, John knew better than to trust gut feelings with no explanations. The night Mary had died, he had been convinced nothing bad could happen to his family. The night John had proposed to Mary, he had been certain the older Campbells would eventually accept their love. The night Henry Winchester had disappeared, John had been sure his father would never leave him alone. At the time his Father had gone missing, Michael had...

Gut feelings could be right, and they could be wrong. John wasn't going to risk someone's life on the groundless certitude nothing would actually happen to them, especially not as so far, every piece of evidence said the contrary. Humans and what he was didn't go well together. Especially not for the humans.

He had just decided to go, when the young red-haired stranger actually turned around, and looked straight at him, without even batting an eyelash. No blood-drenched eyelash, more specifically, because like the proper human being she was, she couldn't stop herself from blinking once in a while.

And she did blink at him, looking a bit surprised at his presence, hell, it could be at his looks for all he knew, because John had no idea what he looked like right now. Mirrors weren't very useful to a bodiless being. Still, she was looking at him.

“You are...”

“ _John. John Winchester.”_

The young woman looked at him with surprise and a frown in her eyebrows, as if she had been expecting something else, but without knowing what exactly. John knew the feeling. He was dealing with the feeling since the moment he had become aware of that very suspicious wall in his mind, that seemed to keep a lot of memories at bay, when he was certain he had no white spaces in his life history...

But for now, he was busier silently cursing himself for not having the slightest control over his damned yet inexistent mouth. He didn't want to harm the stranger, and yet here he was, talking out loud when it could only cause her harm...

Not that it seemed to bother her more than looking at him did.

She smiled a bit.

“Anna Milton. If you don't mind me asking, what are you exactly?”

“ _I... don't know. I died, and now, here I am. I'm still searching for an answer myself, even though I have the feeling I should know all that already.”_

The young woman laughed quietly, and looked around the church.

“And here I thought my dreams should at least be able to know what they're supposed to be. I must have fallen asleep while praying, somehow... Sorry to have bothered you.”

She seemed so happy with her belief that he was no more than a dream, John didn't have it in him to tell her otherwise. More so as, even if she didn't mind his presence, she didn't seem to have answers.

 


	5. Someone you want deader than dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, admittedly, partially centered on a part of the story you don't know yet, but which I should tell in a side story... one day. Let's just say it happened sometimes around Sam's fifteenth birthday, and that I have a few short side-stories in mind for this serie. Like, "Scorched Wings" is THE story, and the others are details.

Something happened, which broke John out of the numbling passage of a time he couldn't tell apart anymore. By now, whenever he focused on the time he could pinpoint exactly how much passed during the focus, but as soon as he thought about something else, time seemed to dance out of reach.

He truthfully had no idea how much time had gone by since his escape from Hell.

But one morning, John was standing in an empty field, unsure of what to do, of where to go, when he couldn't get near anyone without hurting them, unless they were called Anna Milton, it seemed. He had tried again, after his encounter with the young woman, but again he had been forced to leave before anything too terrible happened. She was the only one who could apparently withstand his presence, and neither of them had any idea why.

John visited her dreams, from time to time. They talked. In dreams he was able to project his old, human form, but even so Anna had told him he was literaly radiating light, he felt exactly the same to her. No point trying to contact anyone else in dream, then.

So, the not-quite-a-ghost,-not-quite-alive-either John Winchester was standing in a field where he had a feeling he'd spent the rest of his day, as always, when it happened.

He heard a scream, and, being who he was, he forgot about not getting anywhere near a human being, and ran to the source. He had never been one to sit by while someone suffered, unless it was to prevent a greater suffering. And he still wasn't used to having to be careful.

Something, deep down, told him he shouldn't have to be careful.

That he had a body waiting for him, he just had to make it right again.

That helping Dean and Sam would be possible then. He just had to go and find his old body, make it good again, and take it back. It was his. It would be a perfect fit. It was Michael's. Unlike his true vessel in appearance, sure, but “John Winchester” still was born specifically for Michael, as it was. It hadn't been planned, Michael himself had never thought he'd end up human for a time, but it had happened, and there was a perfect body waiting for him. He didn't even have to use Dean's. He would never even have to ask his son for such a...

He heard a woman's voice again, talking with fear, deep in the adjacent woods, and John ran.

It took him only half a moment to get there. Whatever he was, John was fast.

His eyes fell for a short instant on the young woman, her hands on the gaping wound by her friend's stomach. Had Michael had a body, he'd have been able to heal the wound just as easily as he moved from ne place to another in a blink. But he didn't, and the only thing he'd manage to do would be killing the two humans if he tried to get any closer.

A voice he remembered well, too well, rang with a harsh accent near the woman.

“For a bet, I can help him. But how much are you willing to risk for this man's life, Beautiful?”

Michael's attention shifted to the forgotten god who was observing the scene with a disgusting smirk. John's mouth twisted in rage; he had no idea how exactly the mortal had been wounded, it could even be pure chance, but he knew too well what the god was attempting.

John wasn't going to allow that. Not again.

Michael wouldn't have, anyway, not under his very eyes.

The god started, and noticed him. His eyes grew wide...

John was by the pagan god's side in the blink of an eye. A bloody tear rolled down the woman's left eye because of the proximity. The dying man next to her wouldn't be helped this time. John gripped the god's throat.

They reappeared a few miles away in a flutter of wings John did not notice.

“ _Still bargaining for souls like a vulgar crossroad demon, pagan?”_

He pushed the being, no more than an overgrown tulpa who had gotten itself a consciousness and cut its most direct ties to humanity, really, to the ground as he gritted the words.

The tall, copper-skinned individual coughed a bit, drops of blood rolling down his lips, before squinting at John. There was much unease in his expression, but still a certain self-confidence.

Considering what he might come to own one day, it only angered John more.

“Winchester... I hadn't planned to see you like this again.”

One of the ghost's fingers twisted, and John suddenly realized it wasn't unease he saw in the being's eyes, but true, unaltered fear. The pagan might still have some hopes he could get away, but he was more than aware of what John could do to him. He knew he could get killed here and now.

He might even know what John was.

The pagan god got back on his feet, dusted his black leather pants – really? Black leather pants for a forgotten god who made bets with mortals in exchange for his help in saving a life, that if the contractor ever forgot completely about the saved one, the pagan would get the victim's soul, no matter if this soul was still alive, in Hell, in Purgatory, or in Heaven?

Rage threatened to take John over as he thought back to this night, years ago, when Dean had been the one about to die. He saw no reason to spare this piece of scum. Especially not as Michael knew the Host wouldn't have let Dean die, not definitely. Even more so not as Michael knew he would have been able to save his first son himself, had he not been human at the time.

This “god” was going to die, if only because the bastard had, somehow, known all along who he trully was bargaining with.

The words the pagan had smirked at John, years before, words that he hadn't understood at the time, told Michael so. That bastard had known he was dealing with a fallen archangel. Perhaps he had even known who Dean might end up being.

“ _The possibility to own the soul of Michael's true vessel was too tempting, pagan, that you even tried to get away with stealing from an archangel?!?”_

Stealing might not be the word, granted, because Dean and Sam weren't possessions. They were John's sons. But right now, Michael was in no state to care about his choice of words, and these at least carried his anger well enough at the miserable being who had tried to take his first son away.

“You were human at the time, Winchester, and nothing told me 'Michael' would ever get his grace back. Moreover, why do you think I refused to contract the deal with you, to do it with your other son instead? I was not going to give you a direct link to me to follow back, if you ever...”

“ _If 'John' ever became 'Michael' again?”_

The pagan waved a confirmation, his eyes moving away from the white light, slightly shaped like John Winchester with huge, slightly scorched yet still golden wings, and a flickering outline. His throat hurt like hell, the skin raw where the archangel had grabbed him. He felt his body battling against the excessive energy the vessel-less archangel was emitting.

He let out a humorless laugh, well aware that he wasn't going to walk out of this alive.

Most pagans were delusional, thinking they had any power over the world compared to God's will and his archangels. They were powerful, yes, more than the usual demon, even a bit more than a normal angel, but that was it. They couldn't even kill any of those, if they could overpower them, because souls and angels didn't exist in the same layer as pagan gods.

This particular pagan wasn't delusional. Against an achangel, of all things, he had no chance.

What had been the odds, though, that Michael would stumble onto one of his bets not even two years after John Winchester's death? It may have been inevitable, because at some point the archangel would have looked for him, in order to utterly annihilate him, but couldn't it have waited another century or so? Really, what was a century to an archangel?

The pagan god remembered his words from eight years prior to the, at the time clueless and human, archangel. Twisting them only a little would do the trick.

“It would seem I was enough of a fool that I hoped you would never gain back your powers and your memories...”

Then, to the god's surprise, the slightly blurred image Michael had made visible, possibly without even realizing it, over his core of light and power, the image jolted during half a second.

To the pagan, it looked like a wince badly hidden.

“You don't actually remember, do you, Winchester?”

The god took a step back, and the opportunity to laugh with all his heart. The archangel Michael, one of the most powerful beings in the creation, right after God and Death from what he knew, had gotten his powers back, but he was barely present in his mind.

“What is it, 'John Winchester' only has access to some of his larger knowledge? Or do you come out to play only when a particularly juicy quarry appears? Like, lets say, someone you want deader than dead? Do you, right now, Michael, even realize completely what situation you are in?”

The archangel didn't answer, which was enough of an answer.

Right now, John Winchester might be aware of who, of what he really was, but it wouldn't last. And certainly Michael had no idea as to what was going on in the world, because if he did...

Well, since he was going to die anyway, the pagan'd rather it be quick.

“Do you even know where your precious sons are, Michael? What they are doing? With who they are fighting? And where dear Dean will disappear to before the end of the night? Because everyone know what will soon happen to the Winchesters, Michael, everyone but you, it seems.”

The archangel grabbed the pagan's throat again, burning with rage and fire.

“ _What. Do. You. Know?!?”_

The forgotten god forced himself to ignore how his skin felt about to melt down, and instead pulled a smirk at his attacker.

“More than you, obviously.”

Then he felt a burning grip on his guts, which should not happen without actually cutting through his stomach. His eyes slowly went down, to the white hand holding him by the throat, to his purple shirt, to the other hand of light that was flickering in and out of his insides.

Bodyless archangels didn't bother with materiality, got it.

And John Winchester was pissed enough at him that Michael was showing through, despite the memory issues. The pagan knew a few godesses who liked to mess with humans by altering their memories. They had told him how, if you pushed just the right button, it all came back with a **vengeance** , no matter the spell. The interesting thing being, finding out which button was the right one. He had enjoyed watching them play around.

He did not find the game amusing right now.

Still, for the sake of the show, the god forced out a cruel laugh one last time.

“Lilith freed, Hell has been moving its pawns, Winchester. And before that, you dear first son sold his soul for his brother's life, just like you did for him. His deal is coming due tonight. And there's absolutely nothing you can do against that, Michael! Absolutely nothing!!! Lilith will have your son's hide, and when she'll be done with him... Rejoice, Michael, first son of God! Your Father's plan for the Apocalypse is coming along quite dramatically.”

Michael felt a wave of excruciating guilt invade him, but John couldn't say why, exactly. There was something in his hidden memories that told him it was partly his fault, that, maybe, Lilith wouldn't have gotten this close had he not allowed some things to happen, had he... Had he done what?

Michael tried to get the memories out, for the first time he really wished for the merging to be complete right now, right here, without any adaptation time; it didn't happen.

He had only wanted his Father back, or an end to all this if God hadn't come to tell him it wasn't time yet. The Apocalypse would happen, one day or another, so why not now? Humans suffered anyway. Ending the world wouldn't help it, but at least, there wouldn't be any more suffering after.

Why had his Father even bothered creating a world of pain? Why had he given orders to end it, one day? Why create, if only to destroy? But it was God's will...

John didn't realize what he was doing until it was too late, and frankly, he didn't care. The pagan god's head could roll down into Hell for all he cared. He had more important things to do, like, say, finding Dean, sending Lilith back into oblivion, making sure his son didn't end up on a rack like he had, preventing the Righteous Man from ever shedding blood upon Hell's racks...

God's plan made no sense.

If this was all God's plan, why had Father allowed Michael to be tricked into falling, only to become his own vessel's father, only to become Lucifer's true vessel's father, only to become R...

Had God only decided to make his own sons suffer, just like he had allowed Humanity to suffer?

Or was there something else, a meaning he hadn't heard, a solution he hadn't considered, in his Father's plan? There had to be a reason why Michael had ended up being the very same father as the one he was the son of. There had to be a reason why he was offered the opportunity and the will to intervene, to care about his own sons...

And if there wasn't, if it was all out of pure cruelty, then Michael didn't care for his Father's plan.

 


	6. Never fast enough

Finding a human soul who wasn't currently praying to you wasn't exactly easy, even more so as Michael was totally cut from his usual legions of underlings, and, more importantly, John had little to no idea on how to proceed exactly anyway. Sure, he knew what he was going to do, but only from a human point of view, because he knew that Dean wouldn't have left the United States. And Michael might be able to search a whole town in only a few minutes, but it still was quite a lot of cities to search. Considring that Dean was even in a town right now.

That evening half the USA could have sworn a flash of light had stormed above their houses, leaving bleeding eardrums and crying eyes behind. Certainly the hunter community would take the event seriously, considering they had absolutely no idea what could have caused this phenomenon, and no hunter liked new supernatural problems to deal with.

But the two hunters who mattered to John Winchester weren't amongst them, and would not be any time soon. Sam Winchester was too busy dealing with another kind of white light and the demon that had created it, while Dean Winchester was running from a hellhound. Light storms were not their first priority right now.

John found Sam first, in a nondescript house with a very descript demon.

The tall young man's eyes widened at the arrival of another flash of light, only to bleed right away. Sam took a step back, now ignoring Lilith who, fortunately for him, had other issues. He tried to look at the light again, but immediately he felt tremendous pain in his eyes.

Disheartened that he couldn't deal with Lilith right now, but far from suicidal, Sam rushed out of the house. It also let him search for his brother. He could still hear the barking of the hellhound. Surely Dean was still alive...?

In the house, Lilith got a hand to her meatsuit's nose, which was bleeding profusely, just like her eyes and ears. The demon knew that even an archangel's true form would not kill her just by its presence, but she wasn't keen on staying anywhere near the freaking first warrior of God, older brother to her own Lord and Father. While not lethal, Michael's presence was hurting her badly. And the bastard could simply reach out and smite her if he wished so.

What was he even doing here, on Earth, with no vessel?

“If you wished to stop the Apocalypse, Michael, you should have stepped in long ago! Dean Winchester is one second from ending on Alastair's rack, and you know what it means!!! What is it, did you change your mind and decide you'd rather kill me now with your own hands?!”

Lilith hoped not.

It would put one hell of a wrench in Azazel's carefully designed plan.

And so far, Heaven had made it a rule not to interfere. Why would Michael of all angels be here?

The archangel didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the door Sam Winchester had used to get out only an instant before. The demon briefly wondered if Michael had decided it'd be easier to just slay Lucifer's vessel and keep his soul under heavy guard upstairs.

But Lilith saw the eyes of the archangel slowly, ever so slowly, move down to the Winchester's blood on the ground, which had found itself down there courtesy of Michael's presence. Lilith cringed slightly as she recalled the few things she knew about angelic vessels, heard from Azazel long, long ago, though none of the two demons could say how he had known that to begin with.

The archangels could only be hosted by the first sons in the bloodline of Cain. In fact, that particular bloodline ever had only one son, the first child, per generation. These sons were default vessels for Michael, oldest and most powerful of the archangels. Theoretically, they could also host the lesser archangels for some time, though not perfectly. And the day one of the sons of Cain would himself have a brother, both Hell and Heaven would know that Michael's and Lucifer's true vessels had been born. And only true vessels could withstand the voice and sight of their respective angel.

Sam Winchester was the first “second son” in the bloodline. Sam Winchester was her Lord's true vessel. But apparently, Sam Winchester wasn't strong enough to withstand Michael's true form.

Only Dean Winchester could.

And Dean Winchester had just gotten his guts ripped out of his body, Lilith realized with a torn grin. The hellhound had left the mortal plane, and it would do that only once it had sunk its fangs in its designated prey.

The archangel too had noticed, Lilith knew.

The formless light somehow jerked back into attention, and the demon could have sworn she felt a wave of ferocious hatred directed towards here. As if Michael was personally wounded by his vessel's death. Maybe it was time to get out of here.

The archangel's eyes, which she could somehow distinguish for one reason or another, snapped back onto Lilith. For half a second, the oldest demon thought she saw his light waver and reveal a human form, something she'd have expected from an angel in a vessel, which Michael clearly was not right now. The light divided into two enormous, golden wings without materiality or clear limits, but what really caught Lilith's attention was the way the extremities of the wings were darker, almost charred, barely starting on healing...

She had already seen that once, long ago.

Lucifer's wings had been just the same, only much worse, after Michael had cast him down in Hell on his father's order. Lucifer's whole wings had been scorched raw, as he had fallen through the mortal realm, and all the way to the bottom of Hell.

Michael, God's good son, Heaven's Commander, Lucifer's punisher, apparently had fallen!

Even if not all the way down to Hell.

Lilith would have stopped to have a good laugh if she hadn't noticed the murderous glint in the ancient being's eyes. She had no idea why he was so angry at her, that is, beyond the fact that she was a demon, obviously, and she didn't intend to stay around and find out.

The oldest demon, created by Lucifer himself, grinned a smirk at the oldest archangel, and blinked out of reach.

John's hand closed shut onto nothing.

Lilith, the goddamn parasite, was gone, and so were her hellhound and Dean. John had stared for so long at the blood he had shed, his own son's blood, without meaning to, that he had lost the opportunity to save Dean, or at least to eradicate Lucifer's creation of evil.

He had been completely useless.

A strangled cry outside brought time back into his field of consideration with a mean punch. It took John less than a second to recognize Sam's voice, calling for Dean. Dean's lack of answer. A whisper, from where John stood, that had to be Bobby's voice, trying to comfort Sam... or at least to keep him from doing something stupid, like, say, yelling at the corpse of his brother in the middle of the night in a residential area. It wasn't as if it'd bring Dean back.

John's first instinct was to rush out of the house and find Sam, help him, perhaps try something and heal Dean's body, hell, get his soul's back too.

But John's eyes fell right back on the drops of blood left by Sam. These injuries had come to Sam only because John had forgotten about the ill his presence did to humans. Only for one instant, John had forgotten he wasn't human anymore, and it had gotten Sam injured.

This blood was John's responsibility.

He couldn't go out there and expose Sam, or even Bobby, to his presence.

He couldn't go out and risk Sam, not after he had already lost Dean.

John fell to the ground, and leaned against the wall, as the realization sank in, again. Dean was dead. One more time. Once again. Dean was dead, and there wasn't anything his father could do. He had no soul to trade for Dean's. No crossroad demon would agree to the exchange anyway, not with the way Lilith had been adamant to get Dean down in Hell.

Michael couldn't do a thing to help Dean. Even if he had been able to go and heal his son's body without endangering Sam and Bobby, there was no way he could get Dean's soul back, not before... It was one thing to take a soul out of Heaven and back onto Earth for an angel, and another to storm Hell for a soul the demons wanted to keep. Michael could do it, of course, but it could take centuries before he finally found his son. He didn't have an army at his call, or the time to do the search himself and hope it wouldn't be too late.

And besides, John didn't remember how to slash his way out of the mortal realm. He knew it was there, somewhere in his mind, somewhere behind that damn locked door, but that was all he knew.

As the thought of Dean's death grew louder in John's mind, Michael fell back in the recesses, fell into a semi-conscious sleep once again, trapped behind a door which seemed to be weaker by the day, but not fast enough. Never fast enough.

Michael hadn't been there quick enough to stop Dean from going to Hell, and John didn't know how to get his first son back. Michael had manifested himself too many times already, and the chains keeping him from tearing down the wall in his mind were dragging him back into unconsciousness. He couldn't do a thing.

He was no more than John Winchester, a father who had just lost a son and was unable to go and take care of the second one.

Time started playing games with John's mind again. Before he knew it, the daylight was here; John heard a scream outside of the house, as someone discovered the blood stains on the road and the bodies around the house. Some neighbor called for the police. John knew he had to get out of here, before anything else happened, such as, for example, a poor guy coming in and ending up with his brain fried because the freeloading bodyless dead guy inside the house had been to much to handle.

He knew he wasn't supposed to hurt, feel heavy or slow, because he was immaterial right now, just an enormous ball of murdering light, but John still had a hard time standing up from where he had slouched down. Obviously it was all in his mind, like about everything lately, beginning with his unknown past memories.

It still despaired him.

John dragged himself to the stairs, to the higher story, and to the nearest window. He caught sight of the mess outside, his imaginary stomach churned at the sight of Dean's blood caking the road not so far away from here, and John closed his eyes.

The next moment, he was standing in the Appalachians, where no one would come and get fried to death from the inside because of him, or so he hoped.

Death was here too, oddly sitting on a rock which John was certain had never been the seat of an immortal and well-dressed being before. The tall and wiry man didn't look so much out of place as thoughtful as he gazed at the darkening sky.

John himself surely was an odd sight to anyone who would be able to see them right now. What were they even doing in the Appalachianss to begin with? And had Death been waiting for him? Perhaps he should bring Anna here one of these days. At least, in a dream he should do that.

“Anna Milton is having a bit of a rough time right now, John. And you can't help her, just like you couldn't help your son that time.”

John frowned at Death, his heart stinging at the memory of Dean's death, but oddly enough, it was as if it had happened a long time ago already, not just the night before. John's face contorted into a painful wince, which didn't escape Death's notice.

The older being watched the archangel for a moment, a bit of incredulity in his eyes.

“You lost track of time again, didn't you?”

“ _How long ago was it?”_

“Your wings are almost completely healed, John. It was more than five months ago. You should have been able to hear the angels announcing Dean's rescue from Hell, now that they came back in the mortal realm. Your son is walking here yet again, and the Seals to Lucifer's release are being opened, slowly but surely. Heaven without your command fell under Raphael's orders, and they aren't trying all that much to keep the Apocalypse from happening. Are you telling me you didn't follow any of it, Michael?”

The archangel looked blankly at Death, completely missing the implications of who he was supposed to be besides John Winchester, his mind only focused on the news of Dean's return to the world of the living.

Death sighed, and watched God's first child with a look of pity

“You simply stood here for months without even realizing that time was passing, didn't you? You are completely disconnected from the Host, and you still don't have a vessel. Michael is stuck in the deepest part of you. You can't tell time apart anymore, John. You don't remember how.”

“ _Why would you care? You never cared for the world, unless it didn't follow the rules anymore.”_

“I still don't. But it doesn't mean I like seeing you losing track of yourself, Michael.”

 


	7. A look at the situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, there will be, later on, much later on, a minor crossover with White Collar. Let's just say I needed an OC, possibly the only one in this story who really matters, and I was like, how am I going to call him when I zeroed on "Wait, that description... that's Neal!". Neal will be the only one to appear though.

Gabriel had been flicking peanuts at a zoo keeper, invisible on the back of an elephant, when he heard it. And no, knowing why he was flicking peanuts at a zoo keeper while invisible on the back of an elephant is none of your business. Besides, the zoo keeper certainly deserved the petty attacks. Gabriel wasn't sure what gruesome sins the guy had committed, nor he cared to know, but he knew he was right. The zoo keeper definitely deserved to have peanuts invisibly flicked at him.

Or maybe it was because today was a boring day, and so Gabriel was bored.

A bored Gabriel could do way worse than flicking peanuts at a zoo keeper. The world should be thankful he wasn't doing anything more extreme. Like, walking in a supermax and turning all the convicts' ears deaf for the day... or the month. Gabriel was clearly behaving right now.

Though not because he wanted to. The fact that a few dozens of his younger siblings were running around Earth, fighting off the armies of Hell trying to get rid of the Seals, might have something to do with his decision to stay under the radar. Because yes, sure, Gabriel wouldn't have difficulty dealing with any other angel than the three older archangels, one of which was currently chained up in Hell, and the two others probably being all depressingly managing things upstairs for the coming Apocalypse, which, Gabriel surmised, they weren't doing all that much to keep at bay.

But anyway, if even one of the lowlier angels saw him, they'd know right away who he was, and wouldn't stop at ratting him out to Big Bro One and Big Bro Three. And no matter how he felt about Heaven and his troublesome family, Gabriel wasn't going to silence one of his siblings to keep himself out of their issues.

Which meant, he had to be careful, and not do anything too flashy, like, say, turning the Eiffel Tower into swiss cheese. Not that he'd ever do that. No, really.

So, Gabriel was bored. Back to the main point: Gabriel, that day, heard something he never thought he'd hear, not outside of angel radio, not just before the final move to the Apocalypse, not when any of his “fallen” siblings had only ever lived a discreet life, before passing on and becoming another anonymous soul in the immensity of the personal heavens upstairs.

It was a cry, a call for help, under the guise of a prayer, but not directed to any angel in particular, at least that he could tell, and it had a certain ring to it, something familiar though disturbingly human.

Well, Gabriel guessed it had to be directed at a particular angel, but because it had been sent out in a hurry and by his latest humanized sibling, it had somehow fallen, not on the angel's own frequency, but on something of an alternate angel radio which, until now, Gabriel hadn't even noticed to exist.

Which was a mystery in itself, because the only reason for such a frequency to have appeared, would have been if said-yet-unknown angel and said not-an-angel-anymore had come into contact before that, while both of them when cut from the Host, much like Gabriel himself.

Anyway, Gabriel was so surprised by the sudden cry on angel radio n°2 that he totally missed his last throw at the zoo keeper.

And perhaps he fell down the elephant as a result too, but he was not going to admit anything.

The prayer, feminin, rang through at least two continents in its despair.

Yes, he was in a zoo in China, because there were only seven possible Seals in the whole country, and, more importantly, there were no Winchesters running around China, which made his avoid-the-extended-family plan much easier to carry out.

For half a moment, Gabriel wondered if, had John Winchester been given the opportunity to have more children, his third and fourth would have been boys, perfect vessels for Raphael and himself. He couldn't get the feeling he had had, the two times he had played around with his brothers' true vessels, out of his head; they were too much like the originals, and at the same, very much more human. It disturbed Gabriel.

And the simple thought that he might have had a true vessel too, had Azazel not roasted Mary Winchester on the ceiling, made him wonder what another him, but human, would be like.

Gabriel blinked, still invisible but very much covered in dust after his fall to the ground, as another call for help broke through his mind and brought him back to the reason he was down here.

“ _John!!! There are demons, and angels, and these two... I need help! They're -”_

And it cut off here.

Gabriel blinked again, with the idea that perhaps someone had managed to cut the frequencies wherever this was happening, and that one of his younger sisters was in deep trouble. Possibly after having been found out as a former angel, a traitor to her kind, an useful tool for the demons.

The archangel snapped his fingers, and he was back on his feets, his clothes free of any dust, and perhaps a bit too visible if the look on the zoo keeper's face was anything to go by. Oh well. The guy would certainly write him off as a hallucination of some kind. He had appeared out of nowhere, after all. At least, he had as far as the zoo keeper knew. And he would disappear with a grin and another snap of his fingers...

Right now.

Back in the USA, near the source of the call, Gabriel debated if it was really worth the risk to go and help... Anna. He recognized the voice. Anna. Dominion. Good soldier... or, not anymore, if she was in this situation. Eitherway: did he really want to go and help when there were more than one angel or two running around?

Because what Gabriel was certain of, was that this “John”, and really, since when did his siblings present themselves with the decency of taking a human name? - this “John” hadn't answered Anna's plea for help. Perhaps he didn't want to help the former angel to fight off their other siblings. Perhaps he wasn't in the mortal realm right now. Perhaps he was dead, or otherwise occupied with, say, one or two hundreds of demons to fend off. These things could happen.

Or perhaps the guy wasn't that interested in keeping Anna alive.

Whatever the answer to that question, Gabriel could tell there wasn't anyone coming to the rescue. He could sense a few demons running around the small Ohio town - wait, was that Alistair? -, as well as a team of two angels who were definitely not “John”, given what Uriel thought of humans and the fact that Castiel was too much of a good soldier to have let a rogue, former angel alone had he met her beforehand. The quick and discreet, because hell, Gabriel didn't want the kids noticing him and reporting to Big Bro - search he did of the town also revealed that, unfortunately, the Winchesters yahoos were there too...

Gabriel blinked, back on the edge of town, as a sudden flash of light ejected Uriel and Castiel far, far away from the remote cabin everything was apparently happening at. Uh. That... that was unexpected. A fallen angel, as in, became-human,-lost-all-their-memories fallen angels, not as in rebellious-dick-with-an-overgrown-ego-cough-Lucifer fallen angel, wasn't supposed to know how to do that. Precisely because they had lost their memories by becoming human.

Well, there was always the possibility of terrible emotional stress or violent physical shock on the head which, in particular circumstances, could trigger back the memories.

And now that he thought about it, the archangel guessed that having two of her own brothers sent to murder her as well as a couple of high demons on her heels may count as terrible emotional stress in just the right, angelic-implied conditions for Anna's memory to come back.

Or perhaps it was because of the two Michael and Lucifer clones who were trying to defend her even though they did not have the means to. The Winchester could be pretty stressing, Gabriel had found out. It surely had to do with the fact that their instincts, all the way cloned from his dearest brothers, seemingly told them they should be able to do something. The archangel had spent some time observing Natural Disasters n°1 and 2 after their first encounter, and if there was one thing he could tell, it was that the two were basically their counterparts, only without the superpowers, and without the awareness that they behaved as if they were indestructible archangels.

A perfect recipe for disaster.

Thinking back to what his own personal clone might have been like, Gabriel shuddered.

He squinted at the cabin, ignoring the twist in his guts as he felt the lingering effects of Anna's spell.

Gabriel guessed that now that his little brothers were off to... What was it, already, Honolulu? He could go and take a look at the situation. See if there was anything he could do without compromising himself. A quick assessing couldn't hurt, could it?

He'd have to be careful, though. If Anna truly had her memories back, she'd be able to tell who he was right away. He didn't want that to happen. Especially not as there was one chance out of two that, if she eventually came to die, she'd be interrogated upstairs, even as a human soul.

Still, Gabriel had to wonder, even if he wasn't likely to get an answer anytime soon, who was this “John”? Was he another fallen angel who had found his grace back, or had he simply run from the Host and miraculously not been caught? Where was he now? Dead, back upstairs, or worse?

The archangel shook the questions out of his mind, and turned back to look at the cabin just in time to see Headache the First and Headache the Second leading his younger sister out, and towards the impala. With, he joked not, a demon in tow!

What the freaking hell were these two idiots doing, running around with a former angel and a demon? This, Gabriel decided, was definitely Sam's doing, one way or another. The archangel knew his brothers like the back of his hand, which, by association, meant he knew their human clones by heart too. Michael would fume over working directly with a demon, and the distrustful looks Dean was giving the damned thing told him enough. Besides, the only persons who could possibly get Michael to do something he didn't want to were Dad, and Lucifer, at least before... Anyway.

This was definitely Sam's fault.

The kid was so much like Lucifer sometimes, basically doing things because he was told not to, that Gabriel really wanted to slap him on occasions. On the other hand, the humanity and youth of Sam Winchester also made him do things Lucifer would never be stupid enough to do... which also made Gabriel want to slap him into sense.

Not that the method had ever done any good.

Gabriel kept out of sight, unwilling to be pegged as an archangel on the run by the demon girl and Anna, for very obvious reasons, just long enough that he learned where they were all headed now.

Bobby Singer's. And they were going to put a whole lot of anti-angel warding. Oh joy. Why was he there, trying to help, again?

Right, because Anna had called for help, and while admittedly she hadn't called for Gabriel's help, said help she had called for wasn't coming. Now that Gabriel was here, he wasn't going to let her be turned into mincemeat by the Host, nor be taken by Alistair for experimentation.

The fourth archangel hid it well, but he did have a heart.

At this point, thought, Gabriel didn't see what he could do.

He spent the afternoon thinking about either Anna or “John”.

Then things started to move, and before he knew it, all hell broke loose, with a couple of angels playing the bad guys, a few more demons playing the worse guys, the Winchesters standing there without being able to do much of anything, and Anna trying desperately not to get killed.

It didn't go well.

Castiel had just evaded being expulsed from his vessel by Alistair when Gabriel cringed and finally decided he had enough of this bullshit. It took him a couple of light effects, and a very effective attention bait to get in the barn without being directly noticed by Uriel or the Clones. While their focus was elsewhere, Gabriel popped in next to Anna, and tried to get her to pop out with him, like, going somewhere far, between Antarctica and Moscow, where no demons or angels would think to look for her... Not right away at least.

But the red-haired woman looked at him with shock etched on her face, which, he guessed, was well-deserved after his millenia-long disappearance. She looked at him, and refused to leave with a shake of her head. A shadow fell in her eyes, and she jerked out of his physical reach to launch herself at Uriel, her left hand covering his vessel's eyes for him not to see and recognize their older brother, while her right hand grabbed the vial with her grace in it.

Uriel, blinded but not disabled for all that, reacted quickly, by shoving her against a wall.

One second later, the angel was pushed to the ground by an unknown, but definitely angelic force.

Gabriel transported Anna out of the barn, a few miles away.

The girl was bleeding from the stomach, where Uriel had gotten her. She was rapidly losing her energy, and Gabriel could tell she had been fatally wounded. But, he could stop that, he could heal her, he had the power and the time to do so, they even had her grace if they had to...

But she didn't leave him the chance. Anna forced her vial of grace in his hands, and clutched her hands on each sides of his head. She couldn't speak anymore, human as she was. He still heard her.

“ _Let me be dead as a human, Gabriel. And find John. He doesn't know, but Mic...”_

 


	8. Wasn't that glorious?

Death had looked one more time at the oldest child of God, had found him about as responsive at the passage of time as he had been the last three weeks, had sighed in defeat – unless it was exasperation? Yes, exasperation sounded more like it.

One of the oldest beings in the universe was witnessing Michael completely losing his grip on time, if not yet space, because the archangel had nether a physical anchor nor an angelic anchor. No vessel, and not part of the Host anymore.

It was irritating to see, if nothing else. Particularly as Death was very well aware of how Michael could get himself a viable vessel, if only the archangel part of his mind deigned getting out of its stasis, overcoming “John Winchester” for half an hour, and restoring John's actual body. Granted, John's body was a bit... decayed and decomposed right now, after almost three years of it being dead, but it was nothing an archangel's might couldn't restore.

But Michael's retreating mind was linked to his loss of footing in the actual world, the archangel becoming more and more of a multidimensional entity without groundings, which had been amplified by Anna's death. Michael was completely alone, if not for Death's visits. He had no reference points to speak of.

Speaking of Anna, Death had been kind enough, lately, that when he had come to deliver her death before a reaper took over, the ageless being had marked her not to be too noticeable, even to an angel specifically searching for her human soul. Eventually she'd be found, that was certain, but that'd get Michael a bit more time to get himself sorted out.

Perhaps Death should give a hint to Gabriel, though, if he wanted anything to go down at some point, instead of watching two of the oldest beings in the universe running in circles, or, for Michael, losing themselves into... well, into themselves.

Death gave another glance at Michael, and was about to shake his head, when something got his attention and made him scowl.

He knew he wasn't supposed to act in any material way, not until Lucifer managed to summon him at least, and frankly, he wasn't going to do anything.

But that didn't mean he was very happy when someone messed with the natural order of life and death. Like, say, by abducting his grim reapers. When someone abducted his grim reapers, Death could split himself into as many entities as he wanted, he could play with time as much as he wished, the souls still weren't being taken to the afterlife, and the person didn't actually die. They were more like... in standby, for when a reaper would finally come. Death had enough work as it was, he wasn't going to take care of the journey to the afterlife on top of it all!

Killing reapers was one of the Seals, Death was aware of that. And he would not, could not intervene just yet, so if it was to happen... It would happen.

Didn't mean he had to be happy with the facts.

Michael could deal with his own issues. Death had other events to attend – which, oh-so-surprisingly, involved Michael's two meddlesome kids! What a shock.

So Death left, and John was alone, again. As he was left to himself, the world around him meshed back into a whole, Time being no more than a parameter to the whole, John diluting into his awareness of the world.

“ _John Winchester!”_

Out of nowhere, a thought reached him.

“ _Winchester!!!”_

A thought full of rage, of hatred, of revenge, even. A thought that came from no mind he could recognize. A thought that, despite everything, was unknowingly addressed to him.

John snapped out of the inconscious haze he had been wandering through, and focused on the thought. It had had his name in it. More than that, it had been addressed to him. No thought, except Anna's, who wasn't here anymore, no thought had been directed at him since... John had no idea since when. Time was getting out of his hands, out of his mind, out of his reality, and he could only catch it back when something caught his attention, linked him to the rest of the world. He hated it.

But he had no idea what to do to stop it. Even worse, he had a feeling he was losing time even outside of his timelapses. He was vaguely aware of these times, but it was as if it wasn't really him who thought during these. Or, perhaps more accurately, as if there were more than one him, all with varying levels of consciousness, and that as long as he wouldn't manage to bring them back together...

So John focused as hard as he could on the hateful thought, if only because it was anchoring him into the reality of the world better than anything else in the last... Lately.

He doubted the person who was thinking his name thought he was actually hearing them, because as he focused on the thought, John gathered that it was probably someone cursing his name to Hell and beyond for... because reasons. John had stopped trying to figure out why people hated him so much, when he was basically doing his best for everyone else and at his own expense. If the results of his efforts weren't to their taste, it wasn't his fault. John Winchester couldn't do miracles. He couldn't save everyone. He couldn't prevent everything. But, as many hunters, though perhaps more so than most hunters, with his familial circumstances, people usually resented him for not being all-powerful, not that they'd ever admit it.

A bitter smile distorted his face. People hated him because he actually tried to help them. If, when alive, he had pretended he didn't know a thing, people would most likely think that John Winchester was an okay guy, even if that meant he'd have let others die. Wasn't that glorious?

John focused on the thought, eager not to let it slip past his attention, never to lose himself again in a timeless awareness of the universe, which, ironically, closed him to anything more personal.

It was a thought of anger, alright. The... woman who thought it was cursing him to the end of the world and back again. She wanted him dead – which he already was, not that she knew. She wanted him to suffer – but she had no idea how much he had suffered already. She wanted...

Revenge.

Revenge of any kind, under any guise, as long as it avenged...as it avenged her father's death.

Who was she? Why was her father dead?

Had John been too late to help him, to save him? As if he could do miracles. John Winchester had only been human, and certainly not a medium. He couldn't predict the happening of supernatural deeds anymore than he could prevent them by his will only.

Not that John had ever replied when someone accused him like that. Not that he had ever defended himself from such accusations. It wouldn't bring the deads back.

Was he one of the hunters he had worked with, but who had died on the job? It was always so easy to blame the survivor, hell, even easier when the survivor blamed himself too, because, you know, survivor's guilt. Could he have done better, should he have tried harder, couldn't he have prevented this or that from happening? Was it his fault if his fellow hunters had died, and not he? It was so much easier to decide that the survivor was the one to blame, when you knew nothing of the circumstances. How many vampires, how strong a ghost, how shitty a situation. Hunters died, and it wasn't always because of an error.

Still, John had never really tried to defend himself from these accusations either. Why would he? He knew he couldn't have done better had he wanted to, because life didn't work that way, but he felt guilty for it all eitherway. And it wasn't as if his detractors would listen to him anyway.

Or, perhaps, he was one of the monsters John had killed. Even monsters had family, after all. He wouldn't be surprised. It was easier to blame the hunters who killed to protect, than a parent who had been turned into something murderous, because, you know, he wouldn't have hurt a fly! As if it was the hunters' fault if the monsters had to be put down...

John had never even listened to these accusations. What good would it do, anyway?

John was a hunter. Often enough, people blamed hunters, as if they were responsible for the harsh reality. And John had never had anyone to share his burden. No loved one, and certainly not his children. He hadn't always been open to Dean and Sam, but it was mostly so that they'd never notice how hard it was for him too. He couldn't be open to anyone, if he didn't want his sons to know how wrong their situation was.

So, people hated him.

Because he shielded them.

It wasn't anything new.

Curious, and perhaps a bit concerned too, John focused back on the woman's thoughts, he tracked her mind through the world... Finally he found her, sitting in a graveyard with her brother, speaking of their plans to get revenge on him...

John stopped himself from joining in, perhaps making one or two snarky comments about how he'd be difficult to kill again, since, you know, he was aready dead. He had to keep a safe distance from any living being if he didn't want eardrums to burst and eyes to bleed, or worse if he stayed around even after that.

Needless to say, John didn't want anything like that to happen, so he kept away... at a safe distance.

Like, on the other side of the cemetery, behind a big, large tomb. Humans weren't likely to come that way, and as long as they didn't look at him directly... Even if they came, John'd sense them and go away befoe anything happened.

The safest way, of course, would have been for him to just go, or, even better, not to have come.

But he needed to keep himself anchored to the world, or he'd be lost to the world, he was painfully aware of that truth. And this, this was as close to an acceptable risk as it'd get.

John focused on the woman who wanted revenge so badly...

And now that he was right next to her, or, as close as he could, he realized one thing.

The woman and her brother weren't human. The woman and her brother were monsters. The woman and her brother were ghouls.

And John could not let them do what they were planning to do to get his attention, to get their vengeance. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

He heard them, as if loud and clear while they were whispering in the middle of the night.

“As soon as we get there, we kill Winchester's slut and his bastard, we pass ourselves off as them, and you call him for your 'mother''s disappearance. He'll get there in no time, you'll see, and we'll be able to kill him, like he killed our father!”

John heard no remorse, no hesitation in the woman's voice as she not only spoke of killing him, which he could understand, but more than that, as she also said she was going to kill Adam and his mother, innocent as they were, only because they'd get to him. If he could understand the desire for revenge, as wrong as this one was, John couldn't forgive someone who didn't even care about the collateral damages.

They weren't monsters because they were ghouls. They were monsters because they didn't care.

Not that it mattered much to John right now. He was too wrathful for that.

He had left Adam out of this world for a reason!!! These monsters would not drag his third son in it! They would not kill Kate and Adam! They wouldn't, in fact, even get near the two!

The ghouls had no chance of survival once the archangel appeared next to him in all his rage. They were only ghouls. He was Michael, oldest son of God, mighiest of the archangels. His sole presence had them writhing in agony. Had John waited a few more seconds, they'd have burned from the inside. Had he waited.

Michael didn't wait. Out of his mind with protective anger, he smote them as he'd do for the strongest demons. There was nothing but charred remains left behind. One instant. It took no more than a mere instant, and their altered souls flew out to Purgatory. A flash of light lit the night through a whole state. Thunder roared. The nearest trees burst into flames. Every angel through the world looked up in wonder, too. They didn't get enough time to pinpoint the source of the angelic burst, though. Or, more accurately, when they arrived at the scene, Michael wasn't here anymore.

Gabriel had been on the look out afer Anna's parting words, and so he reacted immediately when a very distinctive, though almost unrecognizable power ramped the United State of America. Astonished, the fourth archangel still managed to arrive before anyone else, grab his oldest brother, and get the both of them out of the graveyard, the state, the planet even, all the way to Saturn.

“Michael, what the Hell were you...More importantly, why aren't you using a vessel?”

“ _Why do you call me Michael? That's not my name.”_

“You're... Wait, what's your name, already?”

“ _John. John Winchester.”_

Gabriel stared, bemused, at the commander of the Host. Or, John Winchester, really. Well, shit.

 


	9. To slap the grace out

So, yeah, perhaps Gabriel wasn't being the most eloquent right now, but he sure as hell thought he had every rights to sound incredulous, dumbfounded, and slightly sarcastic in a I-can't-believe-it way.

For good measure, the archangel said it again, out loud this time.

“Well, shit.”

The formless, bodyless, memoryless thing that was supposed to be his oldest brother only gazed at him without a hint of recognition in his eyes. Considering the numbers of eyes an archangel had under their true form, Gabriel felt the need to point out that Michael had seemingly not enough eyes right now. If he had to describe it, Gabriel would say that despite being without a vessel, his brother was projecting a human form instead of his true form. A bit like what psychics – if their eyes didn't burn out right away, obviously - and angels would see had they looked at Michael using John Winchester's body as a vessel... only, said vessel being absent.

Meaning, under a blurring shade of uncertainty, of lack of understanding, and probably of intellectual loss, and to any one who could actually withstand an archangel's true form, Michael looked like John Winchester's ghost, with two enormous golden wings added.

“This... this is Dad's biggest joke!”

Alright, maybe Gabriel was freaking out a tiny little bit.

Like, how, in all realms made by God, had this, of all things, happened?!?

Gabriel pinched his nose, turned in the general direction of Jupiter, let out a big scream to be lost in the immensity of the universe, turned back to Michael-who-in-fact-was-John-Winchester-but-really-was-Michael-the-first-archangel, took a deep breath, snapped into existence two deck chairs, didn't bother with a beach umbrella as they were on Saturn anyway, summoned a drink because hell, why not? - and eventually adressed the issue they both knew he'd have to address at some point or another, no matter how much he stalled.

Or, you know, the issue they'd both know Gabriel had to address if Michael hadn't been in the very situation that was the issue.

“Let me get this right, just in case. You are John Winchester, deceased father of Dean and Sam Winchester, not-quite-a-ghost, and that's it?”

Michael looked him over, a pensive look on his almost-clear-behind-the-haze face.

“ _Who else could I be?”_

Gabriel bit back a sarcastic answer, only to give another one just as snarky, because, heaven!

“Oh, I don't know, a freaking archangel, perhaps. Michael, first son of god, Commander of the Host, control freak who never relies on anyone because there's no one to rely on where you're the oldest, and apparently an amnesic dad with tremendous powers but no idea how to use them to save his family! And, may I point out, Michael, that you're not supposed to be John Winchester, like, at all? Because being your true vessel's dad sure causes a lot of problems; not that I'd know what I'm talking about, I'm just, oh wait, Gabriel, messenger of God, and, you know what, your littlest archangel brother who's been hiding from the extended family for the last two millenia!!!”

Gabriel, who had started talking more and more quickly as the enormity of the situation had dawned on him, eventually took a break and breathed... only to see Michael take an unsure step away from him, slight concern but mostly suspicion etched on his face.

“ _I'm afraid you got the wrong person...”_

The left corner of Gabriel's mouth tilted at the rebuke.

“Oh no, Michael, you don't get to back out of our family time like that! I had to put up with your moping after Lucifer's Fall for four millenias, and if I ran away when I couldn't bear the unhealthy atmosphere back home, it was mostly because while I totally agree that Lucifer was wrong, I also found my loyalty to both of you being torn to pieces. Lucifer couldn't put his pride and jealousy on hold, you didn't want to admit that you had feelings too, Raphael was watching you manage everything without the slightest hint of acceptance of what had happened, and me, I ended up witnessing everyone drifting apart because of Lucifer's stubbornness!!! What was I supposed to do? Tell you you were right when you already knew you were, and suffered because of it? Tell you you were wrong when you did the only thing you could have done? Or just, you know, watch from the sideline as you were becoming completely unfeeling in order not to have to cope?!?”

Yes, Gabriel was aware he probably wasn't making any sense to his amnesic brother, and he knew there wasn't really an answer to his questions, but he really needed to get it off his chest right now, right here – read, on Saturn, where no one was likely to eavesdrop. And, coincidentally, Michael not knowing who he was might be the only reason he got to say so much. If Michael had had all his memories, he'd probably give him an understanding look before saying he didn't have to explain anything, that he understood even if he didn't approve, and Gabriel would be stuck like a dumb fish that got thrown out of its fish tank, unable to vent for lack of air.

Thanks dad for small mercies, even if that meant Michael didn't get a word of what he was saying.

“John Winchester” was looking at him oddly, Gabriel noticed. Or rather, besides the fact that the other archangel had no idea he even was an archangel to begin with, and besides the fact that Michael probably thought he was some sort of hallucination anyway, the look Gabriel got from his oldest brother was odd in yet anoher way.

It kind of looked like Michael was squinting at him, trying to see something he couldn't make out entirely, something hidden from his sight, but that he knew to be here, underneath the vess...

Gabriel could have punched himself. Of course Michael was having trouble seeing him, not only as the human vessel he was using, but also as an archangel. The other archangel could see, obviously, Gabriel's true form overlapping the sleeping soul of his vessel, but he didn't remember what to make of it. His brother had all of Michael's power, but only John Winchester's memories. He simply didn't know how to look at him.

Then Winchester Senior asked the most disturbing thing Gabriel never thought he'd hear in Michael's mouth.

“ _Are you... Are you actually an archangel of God?”_

Well, duh! You're one too, dumbass – Gabriel felt this particular answer wouldn't do. If he actually said that, John Winchester would just stare at him for a time before disappearing back to Earth. For all his lack of Michael-memories, he seemed to have a good grasp on how to fly... not that he knew what he was doing, only that whatever he did, it worked.

Gabriel forced a grin on his face, fully aware that not only Michael seemed not to have noticed what he had said about him being, well, Michael... but that, apparently, John Winchester was simply unable to keep the piece of information in. Everytime something showed him who he really was, it flew right out the window.

So, he had to play it a bit differently...

Michael would so not appreciate it, though.

“Yes I am. And just so you know, don't ever tell an archangel he's stupid and got his interlocutor wrong. We're cranky. And touchy. And overpowered, so it's not a good idea to get us mad. Now, while I'm at it...”

Gabriel wasn't exactly sure of what was the reason behind his sudden urge to slap the grace out of Michael, nor could he say if it really was a good idea to do that, but he did it anyway.

He slapped Michael.

But Michael had no material body, and Gabriel was using a vessel. Which means that Gabriel's hand went right through his immaterial brother, and instead of leaving Michael with a reddened cheek and the distinctly murderous intent of revenge which was so unusual coming from the oldest son of God, though two dead ghouls and a few demons would beg to prove otherwise, an unexpected consequence happened.

Gabriel somehow grabbed Michael's grace, or, really, his energy latched onto his brother's almost desperately, as if...

As if to anchor Michael / John.

Which was exactly what the two-who-are-one needed right now.

Gabriel far from enjoyed the results, though. The contact with his brother's inner core, the part of the grace that had been translated into a human soul for a few decades, the part that hadn't been thrown away when Michael had been separated from his grace, crushed Gabriel's consciousness into adopting his brother's for half a moment.

The youngest archangel almost suffocated as he was showered with an enormous amount of love for Mary Winchester, née Campbell, with distress, hatred, despair, lack of understanding, terror, hurt, pain, resentment, solitude, unwarranted hostility, silence, abandonment, and a few dozens of similar feelings directed towards the years on the road, protecting the children, teaching them to defend themselves, hiding the difficulties from them... A resounding feeling of unfairness at never being given a chance, at the fact that no one had ever tried to look past the veneer he had been forced to show to the world.

This, Gabriel instantly knew, this was John Winchester.

And it was also Michael, deep down, well hidden behind a door no one could force open, because it wasn't actually closed.

No, the problem wasn't that Michael was barred from resurfacing. It was that Michael was in such a state, if he tried to walk past the door right now, his suffering would crush John Winchester and send him behind that door instead, when the two needed to merge back into one. They had always been one. There wasn't even a “they” to begin with. John, Michael, same person, different sets of memories.

The thing being, that Gabriel needed to talk to Michael, to see what he could do to help the mental merging along. And for now, that could only be done by putting John Winchester on hold.

Gabriel tugged at the mental link with his older brother in a way that gave him the impression he had broken a violin's strings instead of... whatever it was that should have been done.

Then the younger archangel withdrew his hand. The link snapped cut.

He found Michael glaring at him in a very Michael fashion. His brother didn't look like John Winchester anymore, except perhaps for the clear tint his eyes had taken. Gabriel hid a wince. It was almost as if he could read the knowledge of who his brother had become in Michael's eyes, but without the emotional factor. John Winchester truly was behind the door.

Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea. Michael, without his years as John Winchester influencing him... Gabriel wasn't sure exactly what could come out of it.

“ _Gabriel. Lovely to see you here. Saturn is still not a touristic spot, by the way.”_

The youngest archangel arched both eyebrows at his brother.

“I should slap you more often.”

“ _Try that even once more, and I swear I'll find a way to seal your powers for three years before sending you to work as a washroom attendant.”_

“That's evil.”

Michael gave his little brother a hard glare, and perhaps, perhaps Gabriel saw a hint of John Winchester flicker through for half a second. Correction, Michael's humanity was still there, but contained behind the wall the archangel had made for his feelings millenia before.

“ _Life hasn't been kind on John, Gabriel. I know very well what it is to be powerless, now. But that's not our point at all, is it? Besides, I won't last long like that. I don't even want to last like that.”_

Gabriel found himself releasing the breath he hadn't been aware to be keeping, relieved. It seemed that despite Michael's hardened behavior, his logical mind had taken over, and realized there was no way he could just ignore being John Winchester on top of being the first archangel.

“ _The only thing I'm sure of, Gabriel, is that I need my body or a connection to the Host. The latter being out of question for now, I need you to teach me back how to restore my old body. Stick to the essential, say it will help Dean and Sam, and help me deal with it. Once I have an actual grasp of time and space, I'll be able to sort through both my sets of memories.”_

“You're sure that's the right orde...”

“ _I can't be myself again, Gabriel, if I have absolutely no grasp on the passage of time. How do you want me to make any progress if I don't see the difference between moments?”_

“I suppose that makes sense...? But, you...”

Michael blinked before Gabriel could finish his question, and the other archangel understood he wouldn't have an answer anytime soon. For that, he'd need to speak to Michael. And now, there was only John Winchester left to talk to.

Michael was back in the box... and it was up to Gabriel to make the box disappear.

 


	10. An awful job of it

John eyed the would-be-archangel – because no, he wasn't trusting the guy that easily, and while Gabriel could really be... well, Gabriel, he also behaved way too much like a trickster for the former hunter to just believe him – warily.

He wasn't sure what had happened, but he was pretty sure he had just lost time, a few minutes at best, a few hours at worst, no way to say when he was on freaking Saturn. Now, it had become a normal occurrence, to just lose time like that, so he wasn't blaming it on “Gabriel”. But John could tell the archangel-or-whatever had come to a decision while he was out; he could see it in the way he behaved.

Slight uncertainty, perhaps.

“ _You want me to do what?”_

Gabriel grinned an obnoxious grin. John really tried not to take a step back, just in case. He tried.

“It's very simple, really! You need to restore your old body to walk around without burning people to a crisp, so you'll do just that. All you have to do is to get the atoms back together, which I gracefully did for you because we don't have time for you to remember how to do that exactly...”

He produced what looked suspiciously like a big heap of dust... or ashes. John figured that the boys had burned his body, so that he wouldn't come back as a ghost. Hunter's funeral. Useless, though, because someone who bargained their soul to a demon didn't linger around even if they wanted to. There wasn't a reaper to escape from in that case.

It was weird to think he had been that... pile of ashes.

Supposing, you know, that Gabriel wasn't playing him.

The archangel wasn't finished.

“Then it's your turn to work, Winchester. You have to focus completely on your old body, how it felt to be in it, not only what it looked like, but what it was to you. If everything goes well, it will reform without a scratch, and you'll automatically reconnect with it.”

John found that explanation particularly unhelpful, and the terrible eagerness on his “teacher”'s face made it obvious the guy didn't do that everyday. He was even pretty sure, because of one of these weird fellings / knowledge / instincts he couldn't explain, that Gabriel hadn't ever been the one to explain such things to anyone, just like the youngest child doesn't get to tutor his siblings.

He glanced at the ashes, and back at Gabriel with a doubtful expression.

The archangel might think he was being perfectly clear, but he wasn't. “Focus completely on your old body”, his ass. He'd done that often enough while worrying about not being able to help Dean and Sam. It hadn't changed a thing. If Gabriel was trying to be vague, he did it very well.

On the other hand, if he was trying to help for real, he was doing an awful job of it.

Which brought the question...

“ _Why are you helping me, again?”_

Gabriel's face lit up for a moment, and he was about to make an insightful joke about brothers helping each other out when they weren't locking the Devil in a cage, but the reality of their situation slapped him right back in the face. He had already decided not to tell John, for very obvious reasons. People didn't tend to believe you when you blurted out at them they were amnesic archangels. Especially not when they were already doubting your identity as another badass angel.

Not that he had ever tried, obviously. No, really.

“Well... You're currently a danger to the population and I'm proposing to fix it out of goodness of my heart?”

Oddly enough, John didn't seem to believe him. Gabriel was almost positive he could see Michael under the cracks. No one was as suspicious of other people's motives as his oldest brother. How many times had the first archangel squinted suspiciously at him, back in the old times, just as Gabriel had been planning to pester someone or another? Seriously, it was like Michael had a radar for misbehavior built in. Must have been hell for Dean, that.

Now Gabriel was trying to imagine how Michael had handled his mini-me... and damn, if Dean was this trouble-prone, shouldn't it say something about his father too?

“ _Try again, I have a bullshit-o-meter integrated.”_

There, what had Gabriel just thought? Misbehavior radar built in. Michael said so too.

“Fine! I don't want the Apocalypse to happen, and for that I need you to be able to help your sons. It'll make more sense once you're back in your right, time-compliant mind, I promise. Now, would you just, please, focus on not being bodyless anymore?”

John stopped looking at Gabriel to turn slowly to the heap of ashes the archangel had gathered. He didn't seem quite convinced, and really, Gabriel didn't know what else to say. It wasn't as if he had ever been the one to teach anything to Michael. The guy was the oldest for a reason. He had been taught everything by Father himself, and then had taught everything to Lucifer, Raphael and Gabriel. Raphael had been in charge of the kid angels after that, while Lucifer plotted nefarious plans, and Gabriel was busy being Dad's messenger. Gabriel did not do Angel Education.

At least, the youngest archangel thought to himself, John was willing to try...

And Gabriel had a feeling he had chosen right when he had delocated them to Saturn. John seemed to have a good handle on his power, or else there would have been a lot more casualties downstairs, but the guy hadn't been trying to use abilities he didn't remember at the time. Now, if John got frustrated, something risked to be blown up. Gabriel'd rather it be Saturn than Earth.

Of course, he'd rather not be blown up at all if possible.

The thing was, Gabriel could have handled the rebuilding of John Winchester's body himself. Theoretically. He hadn't ever done that kind of things, and moreover, it was Michael's body. It sure was a human body, but it was also an archangel's human body, not a vessel. If he got even one thing wrong, he didn't want to imagine what could happen.

So, despite his fears on what could happen to Saturn while John tried to make his body whole again, Gabriel thought it was more prudent to let the guy handle his own body. Either he couldn't do it at all – somehow, Gabriel couldn't see that happen; Michael was nothing if not stubborn – and then Gabriel would try to do it anyway, or John would manage.

Hopefully.

One of these days.

“ _Why should I even be able to do anything about it, anyway? Am I supposed to be able to rebuild my body? What am I, to begin with? I know I'm not a ghost, but I'm still very dead. And you seem to know what I am, Gabriel.”_

Gabriel started a bit as he was pulled out of his thoughts by his brother's sullen voice. He should have known John would get it at some point. The man hadn't been stupid, far from it, and he had Michael's knowledge hidden deep down, to the point of turning it into instincts.

Perhaps he had simply hoped John wouldn't get it until the body issue was covered. Like, once he'd be starting to really melt back with his Michael identity. Then Gabriel wouldn't have had to expain a thing.

Damn Winchesters, unable to do anything simply, were they?

Gabriel refrained a wince, knowing very well on what exactly the Winchester family dynamics were based. The father trying to keep everything safe without favoring anyone, the first son siding with his father to try and keep the balance, the second son being a stubborn ass whenever he thought he was in the right, be it true of not. Michael had been copying God's dysfunctional family, ironically enough, in a human setup. Gabriel was really starting to wonder if Dad hadn't gone and made a comedic version of the world history, and that it was where he had landed somehow.

“Yes, I know, but you won't get it as long as you aren't anchored to the world, which means you need to get that body asap. So, just do what you need to do, and let's be done with it!”

So, okay, maybe he shouldn't have snapped at his memoryless older brother, especially as John had a whole lot more reasons to be cranky with what was happening to him and his sons, lately, but Gabriel really had no idea how to break the news to John. Like, how did you go and tell someone they were your estranged older brother who somehow managed to fall from Heaven and became human for a time?

The answer was simple: you didn't.

And Gabriel sure as hell wasn't going to challenge that basic rule of life.

John gave him a sardonic smile which totally freaked the archangel out, as Michael did not do sardonic. In a way, Gabriel looked forward to meeting the version 2.0 of Michael, improved with human experience, but he also didn't feel up to dealing with the battle-hardened John Winchester once he'd get Michael's complete mind. John's human experience had been far from pleasant, and considering how duty-orientated Michael had been before all that...

“ _Sure, I'll 'focus'. Because that's so specific. It couldn't have been 'tie the links back together, and don't make Saturn explode, dear broth...”_

Several things happened at this moment.

The pile of ashes started to... move, Gabriel'd say, as if to form back the exact body of John Winchester despite the laws of gravity, but without anything to keep them in place, they repeatedly fell back down. This, Gabriel would have noted it as a progress, since it meant that John had gotten a grasp on about a third of the project...

Gabriel'd have taken it as a first step, if he hadn't felt the change in atmosphere as John's words dripped with sarcasm and unresolved rage. He'd have been very happy at the progress, really, but right now he had other things to deal with. Like, not letting Michael melt Saturn in anger and pant-up frustration when the guy couldn't even say he was doing just that.

Gabriel'd have really appreciated the change, were his mind not boggled over the words John had almost used, only cut out because of Gabriel's own reaction to the other problems here. Like, exploding planet.

Or, you know, maybe not the whole planet, but a good chunk of it anyway. If John went nuclear right now, it was probable astronomers would spend the next centuries wondering what exactly had been the bright white light which had left a hole the size of Canada on Saturn. And beside that, Gabriel didn't like it when people went nuclear right next to him. It dishevelled him.

So the archangel did it again.

He grabbed his brother's immaterial left arm before the guy could wave agressively at the heap of ashes Gabriel had painfully gotten together and blow them to the other side of the galaxy.

And, again, the shock when Michael's core and Gabriel's vessel clashed was hard to take in. Their graces recognized each other, but the difference between physical and immaterial was twisting their energy dangerously. John's anger, on top of that, only worsened it.

Gabriel had to point out Saturn did not blow up.

The whole planet shook on itself, a wave of energy burst out, the limits between the physical plane, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory and a few alternate spaces like the fairy realm resonated in a screeching sound, about every angel in the mortal realm, Gabriel included, had to hold their head under the unwelcome pressure, and Death frowned rather disapprovingly down there on Earth – not that Gabriel could know that – but Saturn did not blow up.

The archangel felt he had to make the positive points shine. Perhaps even counting them for when things would go really awry. Yeah, he'd make a stack, just in case.

Alright.

Gabriel took a deep breath, and risked an eye open. His head still hurt from the clash of archangel-level graces, but Saturn had not blown up. It had to be a good thing; perhaps even a good sign.

Though the fact that Michael – or John, for the matter – had yet to comment on the latest disaster did not bode well. Perhaps John had just walked out. He was able to do as much. And Gabriel might have riled him a bit.

But no, the archangel realized as he took in the eerie scene unfolding before his eyes, Michael was still here. Or, as “here” as someone could be when unconscious.

This was infinitely weird, really. John was only a grace right now, no body, no vessel, and he was unconscious. Angels didn't do unconscious. Angels did fused-with-the-world on occasion, like John had been doing during the last weeks, but they didn't unconscious.

But there was no arguing whether or not Michael was unconscious right now. His grace wasn't even holding onto any kind of visible form anymore, just a big white shiny thing floating around, bordering on golden as for any archangel – except Lucifer, who by now had to have turned slightly charred after so long in the Cage. The ashes were in suspension around the formess grace.

Gabriel stared, unsure of what to think.

Apparently he had somehow managed to expulse John's mind out. Whatever that meant.

 


	11. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if there were feels, please...

The alarm clock rang.

Mary smiled a bit, faintly, without meaning to. She was sleepy. She didn't have to be, she knew that, but she liked the feeling. She's dead, she had realized that long, long ago, when a reaper had come to her and offered her a hand off the burning ceiling, where her body had still been being burnt to a crisp, right there, right under John's eyes. She technically doesn't have to sleep. She was nothing more than a soul, spending the rest of eternity in Heaven. She was dead, and she knew it.

Dead souls can do whatever they want, as long as they stay inside their personal heaven, she had figured out. There are ways to move in between the human parts of Heaven, she knew that too, and if you are patient enough, they reveal themselves to you after a few years. Slowly, gradually, but for real nonetheless.

She had gone to see her father a few months ago, and she had been at her mother's last week. They didn't have a shared heaven, but it wasn't that surprising. Many people truly love each other without being soulmates. They visited each other more often than she visited them, moreover.

There's no frustration, no remorse in Heaven. Mary did wonder, maybe she even worried about John, about the boys, from time to time, but it's not that kind of negative worry. It's there because it's a manifestation of her love for them. It's positive.

Mary liked to sleep, even if she didn't need to, because when she woke up, when she wasn't quite there yet, she sometimes felt as if John was here with her, sleeping right next to her. Together.

She wondered if they'd share a heaven, when he'd finally die – she didn't even consider the possibility of him going to Hell, because it's ridiculous, even if she saw the damage in his eyes, back then, in her last moments. She hoped they would. And if they didn't, it would be fine too. If they didn't, it would probably be for the best, even if she couldn't see it for now. Personal heavens were made to ensure the peace of mind of the dead souls. What happened in there, happened for a reason.

Still, she'd like it if they shared a heaven. She missed John. Not in a negative way, of course. Nothing was negative here. But she missed him, and she'd be happy to see him again.

Not that she wished him to die. Mary could wait, certainly. John would come, one day.

One day, they'd see each other again.

Not today, though.

And that was the reason Mary liked to sleep. For a moment, she could believe John was here. For a moment, she remembered what it was like to wake up next to him, and her sleepy mind couldn't force her to recognize it was only a memory, not a fact; that John was not present. For a moment.

The moment passed, and Mary realized she was alone, again. It didn't exactly bother her. You couldn't be bothered in Heaven. It didn't work like that. She wasn't bothered.

But she'd have liked it if John had been here.

Mary opened her eyes, slowly.

John was here.

Sleeping, in the bed, next to her, his face drowning in the pillow like only he could do without asphyxiating, his dark hair stark against the white sheets, his body outlined under the blue cover.

Mary wondered, for a moment, how he had died. But it didn't really matter, did it?

How much time since they had last seen each other? How much time since her death?

Twenty, twenty-five years? Twenty-six, she thought.

She reached out, slowly, carefully, as if waiting for him to fade out, to be only an illusion, conjured by her heaven to fill her heart with just a bit more warmth. She'd never needed it before, and she hadn't heard of something like that happening from any other soul she had talked to, but what did she know about how personal heavens worked?

Her finger fondled lightly John's hair. He certainly seemed real. Then again, so did she. And she was dead. Reality didn't mean much in the human part of Heaven.

John tensed a bit under her touch, then relaxed. She almost saw the light smile gaining his lips, even though they were still buried in the pillow. She knew him too well, perhaps.

He used his right arm to lever himself up, and his face appeared; John smiled at Mary, a bit drowsily, perhaps, as she had been when she had woken up.

Mary noticed that, oddly, he looked as young as before. No, more than that, he looked just like he had been when they had met, so many years ago. Souls, she had learned, often looked like what they felt the most comfortable when there was someone else around, in their personal heaven. Most of the time they remained in the age they identified with, the age they had been the most happy, or the age they had died. But not always. Her father and her mother looked a lot younger when they were meeting each other, and she wasn't there, she knew it.

Mary got up, her smile never wavering, though a bit distant, as she thought. She walked to the bedroom's mirror, under John's loving gaze.

As she had guessed, she looked slightly younger too.

It was probably John who was interfering with her view of Heaven, not that it bothered her. She was as comfortable looking like this as she had been looking a few years older. What surprised her, on the other hand, was that John would have a preference.

Mary looked at her husband, wonder in her eyes. His eyes seemed a bit more luminous than she was used to, and there was a weariness in the way his shoulders fell that she couldn't quite place; something she had never seen in any of the other souls she had met since the ways between human heavens had started to make themselves known to her. There was no weariness in Heaven. Nonetheless, she could tell, without doubt, that it was John.

Her heart was beating just slightly differently than it had been doing during the last decades.

As if it had found a similar heart to talk to.

She moved back to the bed, next to him.

His eyes never left hers, not even when she wasn't looking at him. Mary could tell.

“Welcome home, John.”

After that, the day moved on, slowly, eternal in its inexistence, but there, still, because apparently, both of them wanted a simple day together, not particularly in Heaven, not particularly anywhere. Only together. The two of them, back together.

Mary quickly understood why John had reverted to his younger self. He didn't exactly hide it either. It seemed to her, that John desperately wanted her to understand. Not just that point, for the matter. Something larger, something even more important, something about him that he himself didn't seem to grasp fully yet.

It was alright, Mary was willing to listen.

This youth, it meant a time before her death, before Sam, before Dean. It wasn't that he was denying their sons' existence, or that he wanted to erase what had happened to her. It was more that John couldn't yet picture the two of them lovingly living the life they had led, once upon a time, with their sons, when both Sam and Dean were out of reach.

The day passed by, slowly, quickly, Mary wasn't sure. Hours didn't exactly matter the same as in the living realm, up here. If she wanted to be precise, perhaps this day lasted more than thirty hours, all in all – she wouldn't have been able to tell, had someone asked her. Time didn't matter when you were dead, and you'd stay that way up until the End of Time.

“I feel old, Mary. Older than you, maybe, because I lived after you died. But also older than that, older than any human being should feel. I feel... eternal. As if I had always been there, long before we were born, you and me. Watching. Waiting. I feel old.”

One thing Mary noticed, as she listened to John, was that he seemed to be listening to his own words just as carefully as she did. As if he could hear them, but hadn't been the one to say them. As if he was discovering them as he spoke, and not telling them to her as he thought the words. As if John was looking for a truth, buried deep down in these words, a truth he couldn't quite see yet.

A truth he was struggling to set free.

He spoke to her of many things.

He didn't speak of his years in Hell, though he mentioned them. He didn't seem to consider them relevant. As if they didn't quite matter. Mary would have listened, though. But she could tell he didn't actually need to talk about it; it was truly irrelevant to him. It didn't matter at all.

Listening to him, she realized what her deal with Azazel, the yellow-eyed demon, had cost her family. It wasn't only her life she had lost, that night. It was Sam's future, too. Dean's innocence, perhaps. John's obliviousness to the supernatural. Without that deal, of course, she wouldn't have had that family to lose, though.

She hoped her boys would walk out of it anyway.

And, if they didn't, that they wouldn't suffer more than necessary before being brought to Heaven by a reaper. It wasn't so bad, up there. She didn't want them dead, of course. But perhaps it was best to be dead and in Heaven than suffering more than anyone else on Earth.

Still, Mary hoped that Sam and Dean would walk out of it anyway.

At some point, she looked out the window, to find the weather rainy and dark. She remembered that night, of course, a few months before she had learned about her first pregnancy. The weather had been terrible. They had spent a good evening, just the two of them, together.

For half a second, she thought she saw two people out there, under the rain. A black man, stern-looking, and a man in a trenchcoat. The second one looked a bit beaten up, perhaps resigned, barely defiant. About what, she couldn't say.

Mary blinked.

There wasn't anyone outside.

It wouldn't have made any sense, anyway. The ways between personal heavens always gave onto an actual door. Her house's – Hers and John's – front door in this case. No one could be out there, without Mary knowing about it.

There hadn't been anyone outside, obviously.

She listened to John, that day, until they went to bed again, as if to live another life. A normal life. Sleeping at the end of the day. Like a truly living, happy couple.

Perhaps she should tell John about her family, the Campbells. About how he had actually married a hunter, though a retired one. How she had known all the things that lurk in the dark, long before John had even guessed their existence. How, perhaps, it was because of her, not because of him, that everything had happened such.

How he wasn't at fault.

So she did. She whispered to him the secrets of their life, as they laid together on the large bed which had been their, once upon a time on Earth.

For a moment he looked at her, a puzzled look on his face.

Mary first thought he was disbelieving, or that he was too dumbfounded to react to the news.

It wasn't the problem, though. John was puzzled, yes, but for another reason altogether.

He looked at Mary for a time, trying to make sense, not of what she had just told him, but of his reaction to her news. Trying to understand why they weren't news. Not really.

Then he smiled uncertainly, and kissed her on the forehead.

“I knew, Mary.”

At that moment, she saw what he meant in his eyes. She saw the ageless soul, the terribly old being, the knowledge of many things reflected in his eyes. The knowledge of who she had been, amongst other things, in his eyes.

It was weird, now that she thought about it, how these eyes had first seemed green, how they were green as she looked at him, now, looking like his twenty-years-old self, how they had then seemed to grow darker, more brown than green, as time passed... Still, Mary could say, it was John's eyes that Sam and Dean had gotten, not her grey, slightly blue eyes.

Mary fell asleep thinking of her sons, of green eyes, of John. She felt complete with him by her side. He surely did so too.

The night passed, and the alarm clock rang again. John was still here.

Without really thinking, a smile on her lips, but perhaps a little bit drowsy yet, Mary repeated her words from the day before.

“Welcome home, John.”

And John smiled at her, with all the love of his heart right there, in that smile. That second day, he spoke to her of many things. Perhaps he spoke of the same things as the day before.

“I feel old, Mary.”

And as he spoke, he sounded a bit more certain of himself, a bit closer to the truth he seeked.

 


	12. The Michael Situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One comment? Misguided Raphael is misguided, but not fondamentally evil - not my best friend for all that, though.

Raphael looked through the window with a barely hidden scowl. Things weren't supposed to go this way, and the archangel had no idea what his Father had been thinking when allowing that particular twist of fate. He had no doubts the end goal hadn't changed. After all, God had written the Apocalypse, so it'd have to happen no matter what. Michael's... loss wasn't going to change that.

It could, on the other hand, make the whole thing more difficult.

A few decades ago, Michael had come to his brother and told him he was going to take a look downstairs, because a higher tier demon was doing things that weren't in the script and he wanted to know if it'd be any danger to the plan. Michael hadn't been sure when exactly he'd be back, but as they both knew he was mostly unbeatable, it wasn't exactly an issue. When leaving, Michael had told him to carry on with the plan; he'd be back, if not sooner, once he'd be needed.

Raphael hadn't heard from his brother after that. He hadn't been particularly worried, though he had wondered what took Michael so much time to deal with. Michael had appeared only once, just before Dean Winchester's birth, but hadn't gone to see his true vessel's actual birth – which had been surprising, but not that weird; Raphael hadn't ever understood what was the whole fuss about true vessels. It wasn't as if he had been granted one, to begin with. Michael and lucifer, yes. The lesser angels, yes. Raphael and Gabriel, not a word from dad, and considering only the Cain direct male bloodline could host archangels...

The point was, Raphael hadn't been worried about Michael's disappearance. It wasn't as if anyone could just kill the first archangel – those who could were few, and had no reason to.

Raphael had proceeded with the plan. The Apocalypse was meant to happen, and Michael would be there when the time would come.

Then everything had changed.

There had been a blast of celestial energy somewhere in the universe, far away enough from Earth that the third archangel hadn't been able to pinpoint the exact origin. Most angels hadn't understood, the energy had been too weird, not quite personal, but Raphael... Raphael had immediately recognized the two grace signatures in the blast. He had been alive long before the younger angels came to exist. And these two signatures too.

Gabriel, and Michael.

The two missing archangels.

And if Raphael had been unable to locate the origin of the blast, he had caught onto something odd in the waves of celestial energy. Something he hadn't ever encountered. A wavelength of consciousness, without a grace, without even a soul to go with it.

The archangel had followed the wavelength all the way to Heaven, and there he was.

Staring at Michael, who was eating with Mary Winchester of all people, speaking lovingly to her, opening to her about his confusion at not being quite complete.

Only, this wasn't Michael.

It was Michael, no doubt about it, but it was only his consciousness, and this consciousness certainly didn't look much like Michael anymore. Raphael's brother had changed. Terribly changed. He didn't seem to have a full grasp on his identity as Michael. Yet.

This consciousness, on the other hand, did look like John Winchester.

Raphael almost choked on his disbelief at the turn of events.

Michael hadn't been doing his thing in the mortal plane for all these years, oh no! Michael had somehow ended up fallen, if Raphael dared to make a guess, probably because of whatever that demon had been doing, and following the rule of falling... The first archangel had been reborn in his true vessel's bloodline. Usually it happened in a couple of the bloodline which couldn't have children, but as the archangels' bloodline was very scarce...

Michael had been born as John Winchester. Michael was the father of his own true vessel, and Lucifer's true vessel. Michael was Dean Winchester's and Sam Winchester's father.

Michael had been human, and he had taken the exact role of Father's, in a human family.

Raphael left Mary Winchester's personal heaven around noon. He needed to investigate. He couldn't just believe this. It didn't make sense. John Winchester couldn't be Michael. The Winchester sons couldn't be Michael's sons. It wouldn't make any sense.

But why would Michael pass himself off as John Winchester, especially towards the man's wife?

The archangel stayed in his office for a time, thinking. The plan was going along nicely. The Seals were failing, one after the other, without it being too obvious that Heaven's strategy wasn't the best to defend them. Dean Winchester was feeling more and more as if he was responsible of everything, which should make him more open to the idea of letting Michael take over to correct his mistakes – the problem, here, being Michael's intentions about that, not the plan. Sam Winchester was completely falling for the demons' play, thinking he was doing what was right, no matter how obvious it was there was something wrong with what he was doing – so much like Lucifer, so sure of himself, and discreetly dismissive of everyone else's efforts.

It was almost too easy.

Except, the Michael Situation. If Lucifer was let free and Michael wasn't back to his previous self... John Winchester might want to protect the Earth, though, and if he somehow managed to get his body – not his true vessel, but his actual body – back, there wouldn't even be a need for Dean Winchester's consent. Difficult to say, on the other hand, if John Winchester would be willing to kill his second son when Lucifer'd take Sam Winchester over. The man had been ready to do it once already... but that kind of situation couldn't be predicted.

Not that it really mattered whether Lucifer was using Sam Winchester or another mud monkey when Michael'd kill him. The point of the Apocalypse was to get rid of the Devil, and it wasn't precised anywhere he had to be in his true vessel.

Still, too many variables, to much uncertainty.

Let's be clear: he didn't want Lucifer to die, and he didn't want to hurt Michael. He disagreed with his second brother on many things, and obviously Lucifer had to be punished for his actions, but he was still his brother. As for Michael, Raphael was more concerned about the damage done to him by humanity. But who was he to discuss God's choices? The Apocalypse was meant to happen, and Raphael would make sure the outcome would be the right one.

The third archangel took a decision: overall, his presence wasn't needed right now.

He had to make sure that John Winchester truly was Michael. And to do that, only one way: going back in time. He wouldn't be able to change anything – even if he tried, it'd have already happened in this timeline and thus the changes he'd bring wouldn't change anything; that's how Fate worked. But he'd know for sure.

He went to see the birth of John Winchester first. Raphael made himself invisible, and watched. He watched as Henry Winchester, a Man of Letter he knew to be stuck somewhere in the fabric of Time in the present, took his son in his arms. He watched, and immediately saw.

He watched, and immediately knew.

The baby's soul, still pure of any experience, not corrupted by life, was exactly the same as Dean Winchester's. This was not supposed to happen. No two people could have the very same core.

No one... except an angel and their true vessel. The reasons a true vessel could host its angel were, first, because the body was strong enough, and second, because their core, apart from the soul / grace difference, were exactly identical. Had these cores been documents, one would have been written in Enochian and the other in a human language, but they'd still say exactly the same thing.

When Michael had fallen, his grace had been literally translated into a human soul...

Which meant that he and his son, his true vessel, shared a similar soul.

Raphael couldn't quite believe it. There was something impossible here, something that went against what he knew of the Winchester family... It didn't seem to fit.

Dean Winchester sure behaved like a human Michael, when he wasn't fooling around, that is, but his father...?

He needed to review all of the man's life. He had to see for himself if John Winchester had really lived with Michael's personality. It was necessary, if anything, because if John Winchester hadn't... Then Michael might have changed beyond recognition. And there was no predicting what the first son of God would do when he'd regain all of his memories.

Raphael was a shadow in John Winchester's life, from then on. He saw all of it. The vanishing of his father, the war he left for, the meeting with Mary Winchester – the intervention of a cupid, which John hadn't ever guessed, and which Raphael immediately reconsidered, knowing what he now knew... but he couldn't do a thing about that now – , the birth of their sons, Mary Winchester's death, and, eventually, the run for his sons' protection. The hard decisions. The terror of losing his sons to some monster or another. The learning of the hunting life in order to keep the terrors away. The one time Sam Winchester had asked his father to help a missing girl. The constant demands of Dean Winchester to be allowed to help on the hunts. The paradox of wanting them protected and of wanting them able to protect themselves. The slow discovery of the demons' plan for his second son. The failure to get rid of Azazel before anything happened.

And finally, John Winchester's deal with the fallen.

Raphael was pale when he realized what the man's death meant.

Michael had spent decades in Hell.

There was no doubt that John Winchester was Michael, not anymore. The man hadn't ever shown his concerns, he had taken it all upon himself, he had done what needed to be done... He was Michael, no question. Only, now, Raphael realized he had no way of knowing to whom his oldest brother's loyalty would go. Michael was the son, but John Winchester was the father. And both had lived only for their families, for so long...

Michael had been to Hell. Perhaps it was what mattered the most in this story.

Raphael came back to the present, uncertain of what to do. He had to go and see Michael. He needed to know for sure... But Zachariah interrupted his thoughts, informing him that Castiel, the angel assigned to guard Dean Winchester – to guard Michael's son, Raphael's mind disturbingly corrected – needed to be disciplined.

It made sense, Raphael humorlessly noted to himself. Castiel was a loyal angel, but Dean Winchester was Michael's copy, and Michael hadn't been around for long enough a time. It wasn't that Michael's son had corrupted the angel, no, far from it. It was simply that Castiel's instincts were telling him to follow Michael's – Dean Winchester's – decisions.

Regardless, the issue needed to be addressed.

“Bring him to me once the first round of discipline is over, Zachariah.”

The seraph was a bit surprised, but didn't comment. That was why Raphael appreciated him, in fact – as an employee, not as an individual. Zachariah didn't have a good personality, far from it, but work still went before anything else. He put his personal thoughts aside to do what was asked of him. As long a you didn't cross him outside of professional duty, he wouldn't be a problem.

It took longer than Raphael thought it would, for Zachariah to bring back the young angel. The archangel dismissed the seraph, and took a moment to note the soldier's appearance: beaten, but not broken. Castiel's eyes had dulled, perhaps, but the glint was still there.

It was the contrary of a problem. Raphael didn't need a mindless puppet right now, he needed someone you could convince it was the right thing to do. Castiel didn't do anything for himself; whatever he did, he did it because he thought it was for the best. Because he thought that was what Father would have wanted.

The trick, of course, would be to convince the young angel.

Raphael took his younger brother to Mary Winchester's heaven, a few days back, and Castiel saw. He saw the first hours Michael's consciousness spent with Mary's soul in decades. At the time, the confusion, the fear, the weariness had been the worst; one look at Michael was enough to tell the state he had been in.

This was what Castiel needed to see.

It helped that the soldier had never seen John Winchester before, too.

“This is what humanity did to our brother, Castiel. I know he will be back in shape in no time, but it doesn't change what happened to him. He even went to Hell at one point. Humanity is at fault, Castiel. Do you really think they still deserve more?”

The younger angel was far from convinced, Raphael could tell, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that his confidence had wavered. A few more sessions of discipline...

The Apocalypse had to be. God had told so. Raphael would make sure everything would happen.

 


	13. Goddamn suspicious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear Gabriel must have been hovering invisible next to me, and making comments as I wrote, this time, because he's always interrupting.

Michael woke up back on Saturn this time, with a light sense of longing. But he had to deal with the mess – partly his own, but not only – before he could go back to his wife. It was almost funny, really. He had married a woman named Mary. Good thing his human, paternal grandfather had been called John, and not Joseph.

“Well, someone seems to be in a good mood.”

The archangel took a moment to stand back on his feet – oh Father, how he had missed having his own body! – before turning to look at his most troublesome little brother.

“I was with my wife, Gabriel. After more than twenty years apart. She's the reason I'm complete again. And my body regenerated itself while I was out. Why shouldn't I be in a good mood?”

John looked at his hands as he said so, stretching like he'd do after a good night of sleep. He didn't need to sleep, not anymore, but he still remembered how to. Perhaps he'd take a nap, from time to time. If only to stop thinking for a time. Angels really didn't know how to unwind, unless they had spent some time as a human being. Or, if their name was Gabriel, John guessed.

The fourth archangel was sucking on a green lollipop, on cue. Nevermind that he didn't need to eat.

Gabriel shrugged, happy to see that the Michael / John Winchester roller coaster had finally ended, but well too aware of the other issues, which Big Bro had kind of missed during his psych session of self-retrieval and awareness. He didn't want to alarm Michael, but...

“The last Seal is for today, just so you know. I was a bit... busy, keeping your grace in check, before you turned Saturn into a freaking space oasis, and keeping us from being discovered by Raphael, so I couldn't exactly go down there and warn your kids. So, should we just go?”

John stretched his wings – they still felt a bit off, a bit raw, perhaps. His fall hadn't exactly been peaceful. And, as Death had said, he was mostly healed, now, but it wasn't a problem of being hurt. It was more that it felt... different. Not necessarily bad.

Humanity had changed him, it seemed. And Michael was convinced it was for the better.

Except there was a whole deal of issues to be addressed on Earth and in Heaven, and John doubted Raphael would take it well. Their brother could be a bit... narrow-minded, at times; if he knew, he certainly believed Michael had been tainted by humanity. That he needed to be saved from himself, kind of. Righting the situation wouldn't be that easy.

Also, it wasn't important, he guessed, but he had to ask:

“A 'freaking space oasis'?”

Gabriel grinned at him, obviously pleased with whatever had happened while he had been out, yet clearly aware it probably wouldn't please his older brother as much.

“Look around, Johnny. Your excess of celestial energy stabilized this fine gas planet into a rock planet – part of it, anyway. And you've also left enough life force to assure there'll be a nice alien forest before long. I'm looking forward to you tricking scientists into believing it's always been so!”

As John really didn't know what to say about that, bemused, he just growled at his brother.

“Call me Johnny again and I'll pluck your wings with an angel blade. It's John, or Michael.”

“Sure, Grouchy.”

“Shouldn't we be doing our best to keep the devil in its box, right now? I need to talk to Bobby.”

That was going to be fun, the fourth archangel thought. I'm the trickster you thought you had killed, remember me? And let's not talk about bringing an angelic Winchester home. So much fun...

Gabriel rolled his eyes at his oldest brother's terrible social skills, and the next moment, Saturn was deserted again – though perhaps not forever, not anymore. Oops. Gabriel had obviously done his best to keep the changes to a minimum. Obviously.

John's golden wings, two in human form, invisible to the human eye, immaterial to the world in general, but visible for Gabriel, of course, folded back on themselves as they landed next to Bobby Singer's salvage yard. But the youngest archangel had noticed the few remaining scorched feathers. He sighed. Michael wasn't saying anything, but it had to hurt. Michael shouldn't have been flying yet, and of course there was no point telling him that; he had been doing it for the last months, and wasn't going to stop just now. Especially not now.

Oh. Perhaps Gabriel should mention this to his brother. Just in case, you know, he hadn't noticed yet. And, just in case Singer threw it in his face.

The fourth archangel popped back next to his advancing brother, just as he was about to step onto the house's entrance. Why walk, when you can fly?... Actually, perhaps he shouldn't give Michael ideas, not as long as his wings were still healing. Man, being a responsible brother was such a hassle. No wonder Michael had always been difficult to deal with. Or, Dean, for the matter, when he actually tried. Poor Sam.

“Mickey, just wait...”

The glare he received told Gabriel enough. “Mickey” too was not an option. Perhaps he should switch to descriptives, instead of diminutives. Hum. To be thought about later.

“Michael, you might want to look at youself in a mirror, before you barge in.”

John glanced at his younger brother with raised eyebrows, conveying easily his annoyance.

“What is it, Gabriel?”

Gabriel opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and instead produced a small mirror out of nowhere. The kid really overused his powers, John couldn't help but think. Then again, if doing meaningless things like that kept him busy...

“See for yourself.”

John eyed the mirror distrustfully, half-expecting it to be a prank of some kind. You never knew, with Gabriel. He hadn't passed himself off as a pagan trickster for millenia without skills.

But it turned out Gabriel had been serious, and John stared at his reflection for a moment. He should have, perhaps not expected that, but at least taken in consideration the possibility. His body had regenerated while his consciousness had been with Mary, under his early twenties appearance. It made sense – did it? There weren't exactly known rules there – that it'd have taken this form.

The Michael part of him wasn't particularly fazed by the realization that he looked twenty again, but the human part was feeling a bit uncomfortable. He could, of course, rectify that, but it'd take time he didn't have at the moment. Oh well. He'd get used back to it. Eventually.

Gabriel snapped the mirror away, and mused aloud .

“Perhaps it's for the best, you know. Everyone knows you're dead, and most of the people in the game didn't know you before you aged a bit. It'll keep you from having to explain how the hell you've come back from the dead to about everyone. Your sons do that enough on their own.”

Gabriel realized what he had said just as the door to Singer's opened, revealing a grumpy man who looked mostly suspicious of the two people who had yet to knock on his door, even after three minutes standing out there. He hadn't recognized the trickster yet.

“What do you want? I'm busy.”

John managed to twitch his lips into an unconvincing smile, which, oddly, lowered Bobby's paranoia. Just a little, mind you, but it was better than nothing. The oldest archangel could guess why. There was nothing more suspicious to a hunter than someone who knocked on your door with a large and sugary smile. Especially when it happened pre-Apocalypse.

“We need to ta...”

“Heya, Grumpy! Remember me?”

Bobby immediately brought up his shotgun, and Gabriel, who had popped from behind John's back, went back to hiding there. John was frankly considering sending him somewhere far, far away. Perhaps Afghanistan.

“Get that trickster out of my sight! And if you want to talk, I sure hope you aren't anything like him. Because Sam and Dean aren't likely to forget the tuesdays trick, and me neither.”

John turned slowly to face his little brother, whose smile suddenly looked very forced.

“What's that about tuesdays, 'Loki'?”

The emphasize on Gabriel's pagan persona wasn't lost on the younger archangel, who may or may not have yelped when his older brother pinched his right ear without ceremony.

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the display, and perhaps a side of his mouth tilted a bit in amusement, but he would deny that if asked. There was something about the black-haired stranger which he found familiar, in a very disturbing way. Dean's and John's images were overlaying each other in his mind for a moment, and he wondered if the kids had Winchester cousins he didn't know about.

Bobby focused back on the trickster. His shotgun wouldn't do scratch to the pagan god, he knew that, but a shot would hurt, and the hunter certainly wasn't going to trust the guy anytime soon. Though he wondered what influence exactly the stranger had on the pagan, because it did seem like the other one respected him... kind of.

“Sorry, sorry! I, more or less, trapped Sam into a time loop? _Groundhog Day_ like? Only, with Dean doing the dying role?”

The stranger's face became dark and menacing, and Bobby was almost tempted to shift the shotgun to him. But he still was more than wary of the trickster, and the guy seemed to be angry for Sam and Dean, which was a good point in Bobby's book no matter the circumstances.

Which didn't mean he was forgetting the circumstances for all that. And these circumstances? They were goddamn suspicious. The trickster, and someone powerful enough not to fear him, showed up just a few hours after they had locked Sam in the basement cell? Totally suspicious.

John twisted his brother's ear, perhaps a bit viciously. Not that it wasn't deserved.

“Hey, I was trying to explain to Sam he had to accept that his brother was going to die at the end of his year's contract!!! Dean'd have tried to keep you alive just the same, probably, had you let them the time to! And I didn't know they were my nephews yet! If I had, I probably... Well, I'd have gone looking for you down there, patched you up, and then let you loose on your kids, to explain to them why people shouldn't do deals with demons! Not that you're such a good example...”

John let go of Gabriel's ear, and turned back to Bobby, who was looking increasingly ready to shoot at them, and totally wary of their conversation in general. Not particularly surprising, that.

“Still not an excuse. And, Bobby, as you've probably guessed, though you certainly don't believe your conclusion... Hi. I'm John Winchester. I'm alive – kind of. This idiot is my younger brother. He's terribly sorry for being a jerk. We have an Apocalypse to prevent. Where are my sons?”

That, it seemed, was the moment Bobby snapped. The sound of the shot resonated around, calling Dean to the rescue after only half a minute, the time for him to come back up from the basement.

When the young man arrived at the scene of crime, he was greeted by the sight of Bobby holding his shotgun close to someone's face, the front door wide open, a trickster looking way too curious of what was going to happen next looming in the background, and his – way too young – father looking at his chest in displeasure. There was a bullet-sized hole in his clothes.

The trickster was the first one to notice Dean's arrival. He wriggled his fingers at the young hunter, a large grin on his face, and immediately disappeared behind Dean's father back, probably expecting another shot to be fired, at him this time, and totally willing to use John as a shield.

Brotherhood was such a rare thing.

“Dean-o! So kind of you to join us! Did you know your father's actually an archangel?”

This time, it was John who snapped, and slapped the trickster on the head without warning. Gabriel considered pouting for that, but finally decided he might have deserved it. The whole family reunion was a mess thanks to him. Then again, at least things had been said. Had he left it to the socially awkward hunters – yes, Michael was amongst those – they would still be waiting for John to even say who he was.

Now, Michael only had to explain the mess. Wasn't that so kind of Gabriel?

John turned back to his oldest son, his throat hard, unwilling to let the words out, perhaps.

“Dean, I...”

The young man dropped the shotgun he had grabbed on the way up.

“Dad?!? What the hell? Did an angel drop you off unceremoniously from the past too?”

John frowned, unsure of what to make of the assumption. Had Dean time-traveled before? And how had he recognized him? He didn't remember having ever met a time-travelling Dean Winchester... Though, John guessed, his memory probably would have been erased, if an angel had been behind that. He'd have to look into that. He probably could restore his own memories, now...

Bobby chose that moment to point out the flaws in Dean's theory, and John had never been so thankful for the hunter's barge-ins. He didn't know what to say, really, and letting Gabriel speak...

“I think you've missed the fact that I've shot him right in the chest, and he's standing there like nothing happened. Now, if you tell me it's John, I believe you, Dean, but I sure as hell need an explanation. Now. Or I start shooting again.”

 


	14. So Gabriel intervened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear: I have nothing against Jeffrey Dean Morgan's John, but because of reasons, I chose Matt Cohen and a younger -looking John Winchester ( yeah, right; because of "reasons" - more like while both are terribly good-looking, JDM is a bit too old for me to fantasm about - again, yeah right, but I will admit nothing ). Only, consider that John is JDM's height, and not Matt Cohen's - because reasons, again, and why do we care whether it's important or not?

John eyed Bobby's shotgun with distaste – because it didn't do any lasting damage didn't mean it had been pleasant to be shot.

“Alright, Bobby, alright... But could we just, I don't know, sit down or something?”

Not that he absolutely needed to sit down or anything, but John wasn't feeling comfortable explaining the Life and Errors of Michael, Archangel of the Lord, right here on the doorstep. The hunter seemed to understand that, and a meaningful motion of his shotgun later, Dean, Gabriel, John and Bobby were inside, and the door was closed.

They weren't sitting, though.

And Bobby didn't look like he'd agree to much more.

“Spill.”

“Well that's very difficult, considering we don't have anything liquid in handy, but worry not, dear hunter, I will do my best and summon some milkshakes! It all started when...”

“Shut up Gabriel.”

John and Dean shared a look as they had talked in sync, blatantly ignoring Gabriel's fake hurt look.

“It's my story to tell, if you let me...”

John turned to his son and his – former – friend, once assured that his brother wouldn't start babbling again – or, at least, that Gabriel still knew how to be serious enough and let him handle this, as long as his intervention wasn't warranted. What'd count as “warranted” to the younger archangel was yet another question, which John wasn't planning to address anytime soon – even if Gabriel's erratic behavior would probably force him to soon enough.

He hesitated for a second – no, but seriously, how did you explain that, of all things? – but eventually decided there was no time like the present. Besides, he needed to keep it short, because whatever had been planned to get Lucifer out of the box? It'd happen soon.

“I... could go with 'it's complicated'; to make it short, when an angel lose their grace, they...”

“They become human, we know. That's what happened to Anna.”

Dean was frowning, probably searching the reason John was talking about that, and at the same time remembering Anna's death... His father, him, was surprised enough.

“You've met Anna?”

Bobby was the one to answer, cutting it short... while Gabriel winced badly behind John's back. Right. That was an issue he needed to take care of, preferably before Michael heard about it from someone else. Preferably once they'd have delt with Lucifer's ambitions to get out of the Cage, too. Michael didn't need more distractions.

“We did. What does it have to do with you, and how you're alive, John?”

The taller guy in the bunch – Gabriel'd feel insulted, if, you know, he had any inhibitions left – shrugged awkwardly, and his brother had a hard time not making a derogatory comment or another.

“That's what happened to me.”

Correction, Gabriel needed to intervene, it seemed. Not that Michael wasn't being clear enough – he could have been clearer, but it wasn't that bad – or that the two hunters were being daft – even if the youngest archangel liked to pretend they were stupid, they really weren't – but the point Michael was trying to make was so far-stretched, so unlikely that even if the two humans could, logically, reach the right conclusion, it was unlikely that they'd believe it.

So Gabriel intervened.

“What he means, fellows, is that John Winchester truly isn't only John Winchester. He lost his grace like a moron and was reborn as a human, but when his soul escaped from Hell, he didn't go straight to Heaven. Instead, he wandered around, and stumbled upon his grace. It took some time to get him alright in the head again, but with yours truly's help, he managed. In other words, Dean-o, your daddy's all new and shiny.”

Ah, damn. He hadn't been able to refrain that last one. Oh well.

Dean blinked at Gabriel – or, you know, at the Trickster, because the hunters still didn't know who he really was, and now that he thought about it, it had to be confusing, like, why is there a pagan god with a newly resurrected John Winchester? The young man was having a hard time processing what he had just been told, which was kind of expected.

Dean closed his eyes, counted up to ten, opened them again, and nope, Dad was still here, looking all young and uneasy, and more than that, the Trickster was still here, looking both incredibly smug and disturbingly understanding – which, really, shouldn't happen, if only because being proud of having confused the hell out of someone wasn't supposed to work with sympathy.

Still, Dean had to check, just in case he was having persistent hallucinations.

He reached out, and poked – manly so, of course – his father in the arm. The pagan god burst out laughing; Bobby rolled his eyes; as for John, he simply gave his son a confused look.

“You're really real... Wait, does that mean you're really a douchebag?!?”

John almost looked hurt at the comment, but finally decided that a wry smile would do well enough.

“I thought you and your brother had already agreed on that?”

Dean blinked, unsure of how exactly his father could know about that particular conversation from years ago – yeah, that one time Dad had, again, refused to let him come to hunt because he was too young, and Dean had pouted the whole evening, giving in to Sam's merciless criticism of all of John Winchester's flaws. He had been pretty sure they had been discreet, whispering under the blanket... Alright, that was enough to explain everything; let's not talk about it ever again.

But now that it had been said... Dean could as well go all the way.

“Well yeah, but I hadn't realized you were one of the feathered douchebags.”

Bobby whacked him lightly on the head.

“Dean, no time for that.”

“What? I've met Uriel and Zachariah. They're douchebags. Castiel's the only one who is kind of alright, and since he's got 'corrected' by Zachiarah, he's been back to being completely obedient and all that... He didn't look right, about that, I really need to ask him what happened...”

Dean drifted off as he said that, but both Gabriel and John tensed at the mention of the young angel's “correction”. They could only hope it wasn't what they were thinking of... Because if it was, there was no telling in which state exactly the kid was. Corrections weren't supposed to happen unless absolutely necessary; at that point, it wasn't even discipline anymore. It was only used when an angel actually betrayed the Host, when there was no other hope of talking them out of whatever they had started to believe.

Bobby, however, wasn't done, and he felt there wasn't enough time left to wonder about whether or not angels were inherently douchebags. He wanted answers, and whatever John and his pet pagan god wanted, he'd make sure he knew enough before doing anything.

“Focus, Dean. Now, you just told us you're an angel, John, and while I can work with that, what the hell are you doing with that trickster if that's the case?!?”

John arched both eyebrows at his little brother, who might have started hiding behind him again for a reason or another, and pushed Gabriel back on the center of the stage.

“Exactly, Loki; what am I doing hanging out with you?”

The youngest archangel gave him a sour look, snapped a snack into existence, and bit into it vindictively. Only once he was done with it – and he took his time, believe me – did he answer the question, truthfully at that.

“Did I forget to mention I'm not a pagan god?”

Bobby didn't look particularly convinced, and Dean's fingers ached for a stake. What? He had been killed over a hundred times by the Trickster! Any occasion for revenge was welcome.

Gabriel tried again.

“No, really. I'm in my own, self-made Witsec. Special archangel on the run. And while I'm at it, in the sensational news of the week, did your dad mention he's not just an angel? I thought not. Well, hello there: I'm Gabriel, fourth archangel, and John also goes by Michael, first archangel. So nice to meet you. Do I get a lollipop for good behavior?”

And, just to be sure the two humans really got it, Gabriel started a little show of lights and shadows. The room darkened to the point it seemed that night had fallen, two large wings of golden light flickered between planes for a second, the archangel's eyes glowered bright, and everyone was perfectly convinced. There. Job done.

“Wait wait wait wait, John's the big boss upstairs? Why are we even in this situation, then?”

Or maybe not. Ugh. Gabriel didn't like doing explanations. He was much better at popping up unannounced, delivering cryptic messages, and leaving before anyone could ask anything – which had, admittedly, resulted in some rather interesting interpretations of the Word of God. Gabriel denied any responsibility, obviously.

Fortunately, Michael must have thought his little brother had contributed enough for today.

“Bobby, think about it: while I was here, living as John, I wasn't in Heaven. Raphael's the one leading the show, right now. And before all this... before I became human, I made some decisions that I... regret. I didn't understand, then, and more than that, I was... desperate, I guess, for my Father to come home. By any means. I made choices I shouldn't have, which started the whole Apocalypse Run. I didn't really have anything to hold onto, unlike now. My... family... wasn't whole, and those who were here weren't who they used to be. I...”

Gabriel saw the frowns etching themselves harder and harder on Dean's and Bobby Singer's faces, and decided it might not be the right time to explain that Heaven had been plotting the Apocalypse just as much as Hell had.

So he interrupted. He had a feeling he was doing that a lot, lately.

“The point being, Michael isn't in charge anymore, and even if he went back upstairs and tried to sort everything out, it probably wouldn't go over well, because they'd think he might be corrupted by humanity. And even if they decide he isn't, it would be too late by then. So sorry, but we're on our own here; just you two yahoos, Johnny-Mickey over there, and Little Old Me. Which, admittedly, makes a rather terryifing team, considering you have two archangels out of four on your side, but still. We're powerful, yet we can't be everywhere at the same time, and there's no way in Hell, Heaven and Purgatory, that I'm going to just slaughter all of our enemies on my own.”

Especially not as most of them weren't actually enemies... just, misguided. Gabriel wasn't going to murder his brothers and sisters if he could help it, and he knew that Michael would try to handle, at least that side of the battle, peacefully – except if someone tried to go after Sam and Dean, obviously. They guy didn't get nearly enough credit, when it came to defending his kids.

Convincing Raphael not to destroy the world, though, that was going to be a challenge.

And of course, Lucifer being Lucifer, the other side of the battle would for sure get bloody. It didn't make Gabriel happy, but he couldn't just let his brother get away with everything and not fight back.

It was Dean, surprisingly, who asked the sensible question – Bobby was still considering whether or not he should just shoot at the two archangels, to let off some steam if nothing else.

The young man took a tentative step towards his father, edged back a bit at the odd feeling of his newly-young-again-and-totally-indestructible dad being here, and spoke:

“So... What are we doing now?”

Gabriel grinned dangerously, and clapped his hands together.

“Excellent question! I suggest taking care of Sammy before he goes all demonic on us. So, Dean-o, where is your brother?”

Dean grimaced a bit.

“Downstairs, in the cell. He's been... drinking demon blood, with the certainty that it'll make him strong enough to off Lilith. That's pure nonsense, of course, but he's so sure of himself... Anyway, Sam's in demon blood withdrawal right now.”

At that moment, John didn't regret having killed Azazel – not that he ever regretted it, but, right now, he regretted having done it even less. He turned his attention to the cell Bobby had built not so long ago – he certainly didn't remember it being there before – in search of Sam's presence, a bit surprised, though, that he hadn't caught on before that. Unless something was masking them, angels could sense a human being's presence in their vicinity. John should have noticed Sam before, more so if he was contaminated with that much demon blood...

“Bobby...”

“Yeah?”

“Did you mask your cell to angel perception?”

“No, why?”

“Because Sam's not downstairs.”

 


	15. It wasn't too late yet

Bobby stood in front of the cell's door, after having checked that yes, Sam was in there, for the two other Winchesters – and, apparently, Gabriel-the-Cool-Uncle; his words, not Bobby's, because Bobby certainly didn't think there was anything cool about groundhoging your own nephews, even if you didn't actually know they were your nephews – to see too.

Dean looked relieved right away – the kid really had a problem with worrying over his brother, even if he would never say it; and now that Bobby thought about it, John probably had that problem too, only he hadn't ever let it be seen, unlike Dean when he was younger.

John and the trickster, on the other hand, didn't look all that reassured. Gabriel looked thoughtful, a frown on his face, and John... John looked like he might gut someone, right here, right now. Fortunately, the one he wanted to gut wasn't in the room, Bobby was pretty sure, so he wouldn't have to clean off the blood later.

...Wonderful how your priorities changed after a few years as a hunter.

John pushed the door to the cell open without so much as a word, not caring for Bobby's protest. The old hunter glared at his former friend, newly backgraded to Archangel of the Lord, it seemed, and how freaking clueless had he been not to notice anything at all?

“There's a reason I had it closed, you know?”

John ignored him, circling rather ominously around his second son, who was staring at nothing in particular – withdrawal was never a fun time.

Bobby's mind couldn't help, as he watched the Winchester father, but to go back at his short encounter with Anna, another angel who had become human. Apparently she had been able to see the true face of demons even as a human, but John... Bobby was certain he'd know if the man had been able to tell demon-possessed people apart. If anything, John would have asked if it was normal to be able to see them.

Then again, perhaps it had all come back to Anna only when the return of angels on Earth had activated her access to angel conversations or something. If it was the case, then John's abilities had more than likely remained dormant all these years.

He'd have to ask, though.

Meanwhile, Dean gave Gabriel a dubious look, in between two glances at his father, and the archangel answered with a toothy grin that might have given his newfound nephew a disturbing urge to slap him.

“What is he doing, exactly? Sam is here. It's probably one of Bobby's wards that's messing with your perception.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“Sure, because Grumpy over there doesn't know what kind of wards he used on this cell. Believe me, Dean-o, if your father says there something fishy going on here, then there's something fishy going on here. John Winchester was a damn good hunter, from what I know, and now that he has Michael's memories back? Really, the only reason we'll be having difficulties dealing with all the Winchester / Apocalypse bullshit is that we're hoping to keep the body count low, and not to blow up half the planet in the process.”

Which was basically what had been planned in the beginning, with the whole Michael vs. Lucifer showdown thing. Because really, the point of the Apocalypse was not to destroy Earth and mankind with it – at least not on Heaven's end; on Lucifer's, it was yet another thing... – the point was for Michael to defeat Lucifer. With half the planet and most of the living forms as casualties, sure. You couldn't get a big fight between Archangel n°1 and Archangel n°2, who was only slightly less powerful than n°1, without that kind of casualties. Less casualties would mean that Michael needed to play it down, and then, it'd be him who'd get killed, because Lucifer wasn't likely to play nice too and let himself be murdered nonetheless – which was understandable. Then Lucifer'd go on a killing frenzy, and half the planet and the whole of mankind would perish either way – which was not understandable, but Gabriel's stubborn brother didn't seem to get that – so...

If Sam really wasn't here, and Lucifer was released... Michael fighting him would be their last card, once everything else had failed.

John suddenly grabbed Sam's left hand, which the young man tried to keep close to him even in his current state. Gabriel arched both eyebrows.

“And... Michael found something. Told you so.”

When the oldest Winchester in the room – or, you know, the oldest being in the room too – managed to open his son's hand, a pendant fell upon the floor; Sam stared, wide-eyed, at John for a moment...

And just flickered out of existence.

The sound of clenching jaws on John's side was enough to make Bobby cringe too.

John threw the pendant to his brother, who whistled in surprise – and quickly stopped, as he didn't particularly want Michael to vent his anger on him.

“Right out of Heaven's stack of magical gadgets! I mean, they could just have come in, and freed the boy, but no, they had to go and use an echoing charm? Are we sure they haven't realized we were on it too? Because that certainly does look like they didn't want Dean and Grumpy to realize Sam wasn't here, so that they wouldn't tell us, and we wouldn't go after the kid...”

John didn't answer that, already on his way out, probably about to fly all over the world in search of his second son. Or, really, to the one place where he knew to find him. The only place where the Cage could be opened.

Bobby did ask, though, and Gabriel was secretly happy to be able to explain; it wasn't something he could do often, not when his closest brothers were all older than him, and knew, if nothing more, at least as much as he did.

Uh. He could get used to hanging out with these mortals.

“Why would someone make us believe Sam was still here, especially to trick you?”

“No offense, man, but we angels are like, a billion times faster to find someone who went missing, so it's even more important to buy time than if it had been just you two yahoos. Moreover, we do know where to look.”

Dean jumped at the words. He had probably been aching to storm out, just like his father, but without knowing where to go...

“You do?!”

Gabriel took a step back – listen, he might be on board with helping and all that, but he certainly wasn't used to having a family again, and for now, he'd keep a certain distance; just in case, you know, because so far, his nephews were obviously emotional catastrophes, and Gabriel didn't do feelings very well.

“Yep. Now, Dean-o, I'm afraid your daddy just left without us, so if you want to come too...”

The look the young man gave him basically spelled “are you an idiot?”, which the archangel found slightly offending, but anyway.

“Of course I'm coming. And what do you mean, Dad left without us?”

As the two humans walked back to the house entrance, Gabriel shrug-flew – yeah, that's a thing – next to them, watching as the kid got a hold of his demon-killing knife, and Bobby of a flask of holy water. Damn, Gabriel was getting thirsty. He obviously needed a soda.

Between two slurps, the cool uncle decided that, though he liked complaining about his big brothers, now may not be the moment to side against Michael. The guy might not always make the soundest decisions, but at least he tried. And, unlike some people, he really had difficult circumstances to deal with, and not enough time to make perfect decisions.

“Weeeell, I can't say for sure, but he probably just flew to Sam, or, you know, to where Sam is headed, to try and reason him, which will certainly not be that easy considering how stubbornly sure of being in his right the second son always is... I mean, you know your father, I know Michael, and what's more likely for him to do?”

Bobby growled an answer as he gestured how ready he was to go wherever they were supposed to go and be done with this shit. That man obviously hadn't experienced Angel Express yet.

“John's a self-sacrificing idiot. I can already tell he's gone alone, planning on doing all the heavy lifting by himself.”

Gabriel waggled his eyebrows, but the teasing lacked enthusiasm. Presumably because despite his terrible personality – Raphael's words, not his – he did care. This situation? It was cutting pretty close to home. And no matter how determined Michael was to keep Lucifer in the Cage...

Gabriel wasn't sure it wasn't too late yet.

“Yup. Michael's always been like that, doing everything himself as soon as the situation became important, even when he could have split the workload between us four archangels. He surely does it to keep us all safe, against our will if necessary. So, are we going?”

Dean looked a bit reluctant to come anywhere near the archangel – he, on the other hand, had probably already used Angel Express. And of course, he still wasn't all that trusting of the trickster who had killed him over a hundred times. Wonder why.

“Where are you taking us, already?”

Gabriel paused for a moment, thoughtful and wondering how much he could actually tell the two men without causing them to ask too many questions and lose more time as a consequence.

Oh well, he guessed they wouldn't want to go anywhere if he didn't speak, and then it'd be up to him to stop Sam from doing something he'd regret if Michael failed. And if Michael failed, then Gabriel really didn't see what else he could say. It wasn't as if Sam had been very receptive to his message the other time – and no, that had nothing to do with the fact that the archangel had been the contrary of straightforward about it.

Gabriel sighed, losing his grin completely, for the first time since he was at Bobby Singer's.

“I'll keep it short for now, but basically? The last Seal, it's Lilith's death. Which Sam seems intent to complete. It has to happen at the very physical location of Lucifer's Fall into Hell, which is in the church of a convent here, in the USA, not that there had been much of anything there back then, but anyway...”

Dean frowned a bit.

“Basically you're going to angel-zap us so that we can go to church to prevent my demon-blood-junkie of a brother from killing the first demon in History before that causes the Devil to come out of his box?”

A helpless shrug certainly was the only valid answer to that, Gabriel figured.

“When you say it like that...”

“Do it.”

The archangel looked at the two humans, who seemed as determined as possible, and as ready to face whatever they were going to face at St. Mary's Convent as they'd ever get.

“Alright then...”

Gabriel reached out to touch the men, and half an instant later they were standing outside the old, creepy, gloomy convent where Azazel, once upon a time, had gone on a killing spree in order to talk with his “father”. It was disturbing even thinking about it, for the archangel, because even if Azazel didn't remember what dated from before his time as a human, Lucifer was technically his brother... and the bastard hadn't even bothered telling Azazel why he was so different from the other demons, even the white-eyed ones.

Gabriel gritted his teeth at the thought. It proved how much Lucifer cared for his brothers and sisters, when these ones made choices he despised – like becoming human for the love of a mortal.

No, he didn't like that Lucifer was locked up. But the guy hadn't ever done the slightest effort not to deserve to be thrown in Hell, and Gabriel wasn't going to forget that.

He turned back to his travel companions. Dean had his eyes closed, as if fighting off the urge to stagger... and Singer was actually staggering. That's Angel Express for you.

“This, my dear friends, is St. Mary's Convent. Particularly renowned for the slaughter of eight nuns a few decades ago, by a possessed priest. Azazel sure did know how to make it spectacular. Also, the mouth to Lucifer's Cage. Now, we just have to find our wayward Winchester...”

And, damn, the convent was big enough that, unless he wanted to alert all the demons that were sure to be lurking around, Gabriel couldn't just locate a human presence. Unless Sam was, like, standing just on the other side of the nearest wall. Which he was not, or Gabriel'd have told so.

Dean solved that problem, however, as he called the two others: he had just found a dead body, exorcised of its demon, Sam Winchester style. There was a literal trail to follow.

In the back of his mind, Gabriel also registered that he couldn't sense Michael anywhere either.

 


	16. Warning Bell

Unlike what Gabriel thought, John hadn't gone after Sam right away. In fact, he hadn't even left Bobby's salvage yard – though he had flown right to the borders of the property, which was why Gabriel had felt him “leaving”.

Of course, John wanted to go to St. Mary's Convent, he wanted to get his hands on Sam before it was too late, before Lucifer popped out of his jail, before Lilith died. He also wanted to slay the bitch, but that wasn't possible, sadly; he'd have to settle with sealing her somewhere no one would ever think to look. Now that sixt five other Seals had broken, if Lilith died – it didn't have to be by Sam's hand for the Cage to open, but if Sam did it, then the boy was right here for Lucifer to take over when he'd get out; easier. If Lilith died, Lucifer was out. The killer, the location didn't matter – transporting the demon somewhere else to stab her corrupted soul into nothingness wouldn't do either; it'd take more time, but the Cage would open anyway if he did that.

But John had someone else to deal with right now, which could prove as important as Lilith, even if in another way. He trusted Gabriel enough to make sure Dean, Sam and Bobby would come back unscathed, even if he didn't trust his brother not to be a bother about it later on. John'd rather the others had waited for him, but for that, he'd have needed to tell them he wasn't actually gone yet – which he hadn't thought to do, and now it was too late.

What he could do, was to deal with Castiel, and be quick about it.

Then he'd join his family at St. Mary's Convent, and they'd try to prevent the Apocalypse.

But he had to make sure that Castiel wouldn't do anything else meanwhile – that Raphael's orders wouldn't jeopardize his family, once they'd be out of Lucifer's reach.

John materialized just before the young angel, his face grave.

Castiel didn't even blink, neither in his vessel nor under his angelic form. He was standing a bit further away from Bobby's fence, without moving, the same pendant as the fake Sam had been holding on the ground before him. Castiel simply looked at John.

A perfect little soldier.

The archangel gritted his teeth. This – this was his doing. They were here because he had thought, a few decades ago, that this – this was all Father's plan. That it was bound to happen. That, as soon as his and Lucifer's fated vessels would be born, it would mean the end of the world.

Because he hadn't thought, not even once, that Father's orders might not be a prophecy, but a warning in case things turned out that way. That Lucifer didn't have to get out of the Cage, that the Apocalypse didn't have to happen – that it would happen only if Lucifer was freed. That Dean's and Sam's births were not a warning bell – after all, even if Lucifer had been released from the Cage only thousands of years later, it wouldn't have been that difficult to resurrect their true vessels, to build their bodies back.

So Michael had decided, because it was Father's word, that he needed to do everything so that the Apocalypse would happen. How could it not be Fate? Father had said it would happen.

In other words, all this, it was happening because of him.

Castiel was obeying Raphael's orders, and Raphael's orders came from the exact same reasoning. Had Michael seen it sooner, all this wouldn't have happened – he probably wouldn't be John Winchester, though. Dean and Sam wouldn't be his sons.

John couldn't find it in him to really be angry at Castiel. But it didn't mean he'd go easy on the angel who had probably let it all happen.

“Michael.”

There wasn't a tone in the soldier's voice, and perhaps Michael should have noticed it, perhaps he should have understood what it meant, but right now, John was too busy thinking about his sons, about Lucifer who had almost risen.

John bent down to pick up the magical pendant. He looked at it for a moment, then let it hang right in front of Castiel's eyes, as if to make a point. He hadn't yet realized there was no point in that, not in the state Castiel was – Michael had realized, but the understanding had yet to overcome his overall frustration.

“No way the echoing charm could work without someone to monitor it close enough. Now, Castiel, let me ask you: what do you think you are doing exactly?”

The young angel – so young, and yet, so much older than John Winchester – looked his superior directly in the eyes – but it was like looking at a picture; no one was really there to look back at John.

“Obeying orders. It is what I am meant to do.”

John's upper lip twitched a bit – this, this was what he got for having disappeared for five decades.

“Who am I, Castiel?”

“Michael, Commander of the Host.”

“After God's, which orders are absolute?”

“Yours.”

The kid wasn't even hesitating. He was... reciting, at best. Michael suddenly wanted to take a step back, to appraise the angel better – and, at the same time, to stay a bit more away from him. The correction... It made sense.

Talking to Castiel, right now, was the same as trying to get anything else than code from a computer. The correction hadn't, per se, erased “Castiel”, but for now, the angel was so badly wounded his core programming had taken over. He was a soldier, under his superior's orders. His goal was to obey. Raphael was a superior. Raphael's orders had to be obeyed.

Castiel was obeying Raphael's orders.

But...

Michael was above Raphael. All angels answered to him, and he answered only to God.

“Raphael's orders do not follow my wishes, brother.”

Looking at the angel, beyond the vessel – though James Novak fitted Castiel perfectly; John wondered if the kid had realized he had just found his true vessel – beyond the first impression, Michael could tell; the correction had cracked Castiel's core all over. Nothing that wouldn't heal, and his personality was still there, obviously – but it would take time, a lot of time, for the angel to be willing to make a choice for himself.

Unless someone pushed him to do just that. Preferably someone with authority, someone who would comfort Castiel into thinking that he was doing the right thing.

Someone like Michael.

Something shivered in the patched-back-together grace at the first archangel's words.

But Raphael – Naomi, more likely – had been thorough. It wasn't enough to say that Castiel wasn't following the right orders. The young angel needed more.

Still, if Castiel was bound to Raphael's orders, his programming also ensured that he couldn't refuse to answer the highest ranked archangel. If Michael could speak to Castiel... then John could persuade him to stop following Raphael's orders.

Or, he could kill the kid, but John'd rather not kill his siblings unless absolutely necessary. Moreover, Castiel was Dean's friend – and the one who had pulled his son out of Hell. John wasn't going to forget that.

Castiel's toneless answer wasn't really reassuring, though.

“Raphael showed me what happened to the Commander of the Host. He told me your current wishes are not what your real self want. Michael has been corrupted by Humanity. It is for his own sake that I have to see that the Apocalypse does happen. It is for Michael's sake that the Righteous Man and his brother shall complete their destiny. Killing Lucifer will set Michael right again, Raphael told me, because the oldest son of God will be accomplishing God's will again.”

Knowing Raphael, John could tell the younger archangel probably thought this was the truth, too – it wasn't just a way to get Castiel to act upon his will. Raphael was nothing if not stubborn and rule-abiding. If he considered, as Michael had once, that the Apocalypse was a prophecy and not a warning, should Lucifer get out, then he'd do everything for it to happen. No matter what.

If Raphael believed Michael needed it to be him again, there was no point even arguing.

John chose to angle his convincing another way.

“What do you make of what Dean showed you, then? Can you simply forget how he changed your mind despite your programming? Perhaps he was right to believe the Apocalypse didn't have to happen.”

“I was wrong to listen to him. My place is that of a soldier; God's will is the only one to follow; the archangels who are still part of the Host are the ones who relay God's will.”

“I am Michael, Castiel, and I will not let the world end.

“You have been corrupted by your time as a human.”

Well, when you put it like that... John had no idea how Raphael had found out, and what exactly he had shown to the younger angel, but it certainly was doing the trick. Castiel was persuaded it wasn't really Michael speaking here, even if he was Michael.

If what he was about to say to the angel didn't suffice, John was afraid Dean would have to do without his friend.

“Now, listen, Castiel. If this is all God's plan... Then perhaps my time as a human was taken into account. Perhaps I needed it, perhaps it wasn't a corruption. And you followed Dean's will before, so you should know you aren't completely without free will; your programming isn't absolute. Or, if it is, then it is also normal that you listened to Dean: he is my human counterpart. Dean and I, at the core, we are the same person. His will is my will. And Dean wants the Apocalypse not to happen.”

John shook his head, and turned around – he still needed to go and get Sam back before the Devil got out of his box.

“Think about it while I'm away, Castiel. Because if I don't manage to undo what Raphael made you do, if Lucifer gets out... Then you'll have to pick a side.”

The angel didn't have anything to say to that.

John still waited another moment before leaving – all of a sudden realizing what Castiel hadn't said. What the angel obviously didn't know, or else he'd have mentioned it when he spoke of humanity corrupting the Commander of the Host.

“By the way, Castiel... I feel like I should thank you for saving my first son's soul from Hell, even if you did it because it was the orders. So, thank you, Castiel.”

What the angel'd make of that information – what he'd decide now that he knew that Michael and John Winchester were one and the same – John'd have to wait and see. He wasn't sure whether or not it was a good thing to have told the young one, but he felt it had to be said.

Now he really needed to get to Gabriel and the others, to stop Lucifer from esca...

John went still under the flow of celestial energy – corrupted without doubt, that one, by the Mark, by the years in the Cage. Dreed pervaded his very core, as well as memories he'd rather not have to deal with – it had been so long since he'd last felt Lucifer's grace. Even back in Hell, the Cage had been containing his brother's presence, but now...

The Cage had been opened, and Lucifer's power, built up for millenia, was about to erupt. Only a few more seconds, the time for the mouth to be fully open, and Lucifer would fly out – directly for Sam, aiming for his true vessel. Unaware – uncarring had he known, perhaps; Michael hadn't seen his brother for so long, he couldn't begin to surmise how bad he might have gotten in his jail – of who Sam was. That Sam was also his nephew, not only his true vessel...

It was too late.

John didn't exactly know what had happened at St. Mary's Convent, but he could guess. Dean, Bobby and Gabriel had been too late to stop Sam from killing Lilith.

And now, Lucifer was breaking free.

If they were lucky, Gabriel would manage to zap the kids and Bobby out of there before everything exploded, and Sam wouldn't yet be under Lucifer's possession. They'd still have to battle their way out of the Apocalypse, they'd still need to get the Devil back in his box – but there'd still be hope.

There was no point going to St. Mary's Convent right now. Either there wasn't anything he could do there – or the children were already out of the way, and there wasn't anything he could do there anyway. There was no point...

But John didn't care. He flew right into the middle of the Convent, right next to the gapping mouth to the Cage – right where he knew Sam and Dean would be if they were still there. It was his children in the line. He had to make sure they were alright...

They were; the convent was deserted, brightly lip up by Lucifer's return upon Earth.

The brothers met eyes, just at the moment the chapel exploded – and then, nothing.

 


	17. Prophecies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear: I don't dislike Sam. But the first four season, and yet a bit in the fifth, there are times he frankly angered me. He has good points in his personality, and perhaps I like the self-sacrificial characters better ( Dean ), but there were things he said and did...  
> Like, "Dean, I just want to be able to really help people" at the begining of the show, which is basically the same thing as saying that no, Dean, what you do when you save people isn't helping them. I'm not saying Sam shouldn't be wanting a normal life, but I can't bear how he used to just dismiss the ways he didn't like.  
> He really started ( or finished, perhaps ) to grew up in season 5, in my opinion

John was left standing in the ruins of the chapel – alone.

Lucifer had fled right away, of course. His brother didn't have a vessel, right now, and while they could, more or less, fight without vessels even on the mortal plane, the most it would do would be ruffling a few feathers... and perhaps exploding a few human eyeballs at the same time. Lucifer needed to find a vessel – which, at least, meant that Gabriel had done a good job preventing Sam from being right in the middle of Lucifer's return, even if he hadn't managed to stop said return.

It didn't actually have to be Sam, for Lucifer to be able to fight with his entire power. A true vessel wasn't needed for that; what a true vessel was for, was comfort, and the assurance that you won't need to change vessel every few months.

In other words, Lucifer didn't even need Sam – but he'd still try to get him, John could tell.

And he wasn't going to let that happen.

He decided to go back to Bobby's – the old hunter really needed to angel-proof his house, anyone could just pop in, and it wasn't a good thing. Not that John particularly wanted to be stuck outside... But there were ways to simply prevent angels from flying in, without stopping them from walking in. That might be a good thing to do.

The kids, Bobby and Gabriel were probably there now – Bobby enforcing another round of withdrawal on Sam, certainly, who had to be moping about what he had just done. Couldn't say he hadn't been warned, this time. But John knew he'd still do it – because Sam was like that. Not a bad person, sure, always trying to do the good thing; but when you did something wrong, he never forgave you, and when he was the one to make a mistake, then it's not the same, because he thought it was the right thing to do at the time. Didn't mean he forgave himself... but you, you sure didn't have the right to blame him.

And obviously, Dean, and John himself, wouldn't say a thing – first, because Sam wouldn't listen anyway; second, because they didn't want Sam to take it even harder.

At least, John reasoned, Sam was better than his uncle on at least one point: since he wasn't all powerful and immortal, he did learn from his mistakes, and recognized when he had been wrong... If the situation was grave enough.

John looked around one last time. To him, it felt as if only a few seconds had passed since the explosion, but the powers involved had rendered the place a bit unstable in Time. It wouldn't last, but Michael was almost certain that for now, one minute here was closer to one hour outside.

The chapel had literally exploded, and most of the rest of the convent had been strongly shaken. He wouldn't be surprised if a few more walls fell down in the next few hours. He wondered what the official cause would be this time – gas leak, perhaps.

It didn't really matter, though; humans were good at denying the supernatural, for the simple reason that the supernatural hadn't been this obvious in a very long time. They'd find an answer...

And if they did not, well... The Apocalypse was here. They'd see a lot more unexplainable events in the next months, even if they managed to prevent the final fight.

Just as he was about to go – he had to check on Sam, to see how far he was because of the demon blood – a voice in his head stopped him.

A prayer – well, kind of. It sounded way too awkward to be an actual prayer... but it certainly worked like one, since Michael was hearing it now.

“ _Archangel Michael... Or, you know... John, right? Is... Is this really working? Or am I just talking to myself here? I mean, it's not like there's a small green light to tell you your call's been connected... Erm, sorry... If you're hearing me, John Winchester... It's Chuck Shurley. The prophet, I mean. And I... Well, that's awkward... I know you're busy and all, but perhaps we should... talk, you know. About the visions. And Sam. And Dean. And the Devil. And... you know what? About the Apocalypse. There. I said it. So... I'll be waiting at home, and if you don't come, then I'll guess this prayer thing didn't work. Or maybe you just didn't want to come, too. I mean, it's not like you have to come, right? You do what you want, I'm not the one who's going to tell you another way. I wouldn't dare... Anyway. I'm waiting...”_

If this had been a call on his cellphone – John should really get a new one, as it was – he'd probably be staring at the device with his eyebrows raised. But it was a prayer he heard in his head, so there was nothing to stare at.

John hesitated a moment – then again, Dean and Sam didn't actually need him right now, they were more than likely trying to deal with their own issues, and John knew from experience it wasn't a good thing to interrupt. And Gabriel would be able to do that enough for the two of them, so...

He also wasn't sure the kids wanted to see him.

So in the end, he decided to go and see this Prophet. Maybe he had important things to say. Maybe not. But John really should go now. Raphael was probably busy with keeping an eye on Lucifer's progress, which meant he might not react right away when Michael got to his prophet. Not that Michael had any evil intentions towards the man, which would be what Raphael's link to the Prophet would pick up on, but you never knew. His brother could be keeping a closer watch than that on the prophet, for one reason or another.

And for now, Raphael had other things to be busy with.

John focused on the thread of the prayer – that was still going, and Dad, didn't the guy know how to say things directly? John was almost certain half of the prayer was consisting of the prophet's rambling. From it, he found the Prophet's location, and flew right in the man's house.

In fact, John appeared two feet behind Chuck Shurley, Prophet of the Lord. The man was wriggling his hands a bit, facing a wall – John guessed not everyone could look natural while talking to someone who's not present in the room through a supernatural line of communication. He hadn't yet noticed his presence, and was continuing his... prayer.

“Of course, you can come later if you want... Wait, do you actually need my address?”

“No thanks. I found you without a problem, Prophet.”

Chuck Shurley whirled around at the sound of John's voice, utterly startled – and surely more than a little spooked by the sudden intrusion.

John felt a bit bad about scaring the living daylights out of the man, who had obviously not asked to be involved in anything supernatural, yet had still ended up being the latest prophet of the Lord. Most people didn't actually want to be involved, John knew that very well – though, his case was somewhat peculiar, with him being a fallen archangel even as he had been human...

Just a bit, though. Shurley had been talking his ear – head? – off for the last three minutes, and doing that in barely more than one-hundred and eighty seconds? You really had to be terrible at communication to achieve that.

Not that John – or Michael – was an expert on communication, far from it, but still...

“Hello. I'm John Winchester.”

He figured he could at least make that clear, since he had flown right into the guy's kitchen without so much as a warning. Shurley deserved to know it wasn't just a random stranger who was standing in front of him after having sneaked in.

Also, John wasn't fancying getting hit with the frying pan the prophet had grabbed as a mean to defend himself in his fright.

“You wanted us to speak?”

Chuck stared at the archangel in his kitchen for half a minute, his heart still beating erratically, without saying a word. He needed to calm down, really. It was just...

Just an archangel in his kitchen. An archangel about whose's kids he had written sex scenes – yeah, he hadn't told Sam that when they had met, but Dean wasn't the only one; the one with Sarah Blake... anyway. An archangel about whom he had seen only glimpses of what he had been up to in his visions – Chuck was a Prophet of the Lord, alright, but his visions mostly focused on the Winchester brothers. For all he knew, having Michael in his kitchen was not a good situation – of course, Chuck knew it wasn't the case, for various reasons, but he still didn't want to have to explain certain things to the Winchester father, in case he asked. Like, how Sam and Dean had reacted to his death – his sacrifice.

Among other things.

Chuck sucked in a breath – he needed to calm down, now.

“Yeah... I... How do I say that...? Though, I guess you know how the whole Prophet of God thing works...?”

John Winchester – Michael – Winchester nodded shortly.

“Of course I do. Now, what does it have to do with you wanting to speak to me?”

Chuck chuckled awkwardly – he didn't want to lie, but at the same time, he didn't exactly have a choice on that point... And it wasn't exactly a lie, anyway. Chuck Shurley really was lost in all this.

“Well, you know more than I do, then. But I'm supposed to only be having visions about the Apocalypse, and your sons, right?”

“It's a bit more complicated than that, but essentially, yes. There have been several Prophets of the Lord in History, but each of them are... specific to an event. You are the Prophet of the Apocalypse. So your prophecies are all linked, in a way or another, to the Apocalypse.”

Chuck blanched visibly – he wasn't looking forward to the rain of blood visions, and that was perhaps one of the easiest events to come...

“Great. Now, is there a way my visions can be... tampered with? Because I've had one just a few minutes ago, that basically said Michael had lost his sword, and it could be found in John Winchester's storage unit... And while it makes a strange kind of sense, since John Winchester and Michael are actually the same entity, I doubt you need a vision from me to find it back...?”

John didn't answer, and instead pulled out his archangel blade for the prophet to see.

“...Or perhaps you haven't lost it at all. Great. I'm having fake visions. Well then... Sorry to have wasted your time. You... should perhaps go to see your family...”

Chuck blinked hard, staggering under the coming headache, and kept himself from crashing on the floor by gripping the fridge. Way to go, Chuck. Let's ridicule yourself a bit more before the first son of God.

“They've been waiting for you to come back for a few hours, now. I... I think Castiel warded the brothers against angel perception. Though, fake visions. I might be wrong about that. I'll just...”

“Your visions come from God himself, from his omniscience, but they transit by Heaven. No angels can watch what you see, yet they can add their own visions. If I had to guess, I'd say Zachariah is tampering with yours, so that you'd tell Dean, and he'd go just where Zachariah wants him. Heaven doesn't know about me, I suppose, except perhaps Raphael. And Michael's sword... It's both this blade, and my true vessel. Dean. But with my body, John Winchester's body, I don't need a vessel. They're trying to manipulate Dean through you.”

John looked around the kitchen, did a quick sensory scouting of the house, the surrounding areas. No angels, no one watching. He could, and should probably, do it.

He came closer to Chuck Shurley, and put his right hand on the man's forehead – the two fingers thing was too... weirdly peculiar for him now, after having been human for decades.

Before the man could protest and try to take a step back, John spoke again.

“I'm going to let you a mean to sort through the fake visions, and God's. But as soon as I'll have done it, Raphael will notice me and come down. So I'm just going to get away from here real fast, and you... Just stand by, and if he asks anything... Well, be honest, but no more than necessary.”

The prophet looked at him oddly.

“Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, but... Just a question, before you do it and leave?”

John sighed, but relented. Accepting to listen didn't mean he'd answer, anyway.

“Go on?”

Shurley didn't look particularly at ease with his question, but still asked it. John wondered if that was because the prophet thought it important – he wasn't going to dismiss a prophet's intuition, since about half of their subconscious was corrupted by the visions they had, but couldn't entirely remember afterwards. Visions were strenuous.

“You've become your Father's replacement, in your own human family, correct? Then, shouldn't you have a fourth son? I mean, it's obvious Dean's like you, Sam is like Lucifer; even wanting to be a lawyer is a giveaway for him, silver tongue and all that. Adam is the quiet one, who wants to be a doctor; definitely Raphael. That being said, there should be a Gabriel to make it complete, right?”

“Not that I know of.”

John didn't say anything else – he just put an alert in the prophet's mind, and left.

 


	18. Several destinies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget, even if I'm not following one POV, I write mostly from the characters' perception of what happens. So I might be writting things I don't completely agree with, because that's what they think, because the characters don't know absolutely everything about the others. They might assume things, that I know not to be the case.  
> That being said, I'm not saying they're completely wrong either.

Voices were talking quietly behind the door, which he supposed was a good thing. It meant that whatever had happened in the last hours, Bobby, Dean and Sam had calmed down enough not to scream at one another – and that they were still talking, and not ignoring each other in retaliation. No sign of Gabriel's presence, but he guessed that the house had been warded against angel perception, among other things, after Lucifer's escape from the Cage.

John pushed the door to Bobby's house – it was rude to just fly in, something most of his siblings couldn't seem to be able to figure out; except Gabriel, but Gabriel didn't care about rudeness. It creaked. The voices stopped talking.

“It's John.”

“It's me” might have done it too, but he had always thought it was a bit of a stupid way to announce yourself. Whoever you were, “it's me” would never be a lie, and the others would have to rely on their memory to find out wo was the owner's of the voice.

“We're in the kitchen.”

It wasn't particularly surprising, and it obviously meant he could come in, even if it hadn't been clearly said. Human languages, he thought, were a bit odd like that. Not that he thought them weird, nowadays, but if he really thought about it... A few decades ago, he wouldn't have understood the implied invitation.

A few decades ago, he hadn't ever been human.

He wasn't anymore, true, he was an angel again, but it didn't mean he had forgotten what it was to be human.

If things ever got better – read, if they managed to postpone the Apocalypse – and he got his place back as the Commander of Heaven, perhaps Michael should consider making a human life mandatory for everyone – not all the angels at the same time, of course, but a few each generation... Then, once their human life came to an end, the retrieved grace would be given back to the soul in Heaven, and hopefully the Host would become much more considerate.

Father hadn't exactly said that falling was a sin, after all; it was more that those who did it, usually did it for bad reasons.

Except, there was always the risk of a human angel going astray, earning themselves a place in Hell. Becoming like Azazel. Or living such a terrible life, that once they'd become angels again, they would completely reject humanity. If Michael wanted the angels to truly know what it was like to be human, he couldn't keep monitoring their lives, he couldn't stop the bad things from happening.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea, after all.

John entered the old house – and felt the walls, the ground shake slightly. Nothing dangerous, but he looked around the entrance; luminous enochian symbols were glowing softly over the walls. John didn't move.

After a few seconds, the light dimmed down. Soon, the wards weren't visible anymore.

Gabriel's head appeared from the kitchen's door, frowning at his work.

“Hi Bro. Seen my wards?”

Half-expecting a trick – the kind Bobby wouldn't appreciate if anything was triggered in his house – he took a new step. No response from the protective symbols. Apparently Gabriel had been kind enough not to prank the protections.

“Indeed. May I know what exactly their purpose is?”

Just in case, you know, Gabriel had added a few unnecessary options, like expelling any angel who'd try to drink a beer – hence, John. It wouldn't be the first time.

“Impossible to come in or leave by flying, first thing, no smitting allowed, I'm immediately alerted whenever someone new and angelic walks in, and if particular unsavory angels which I have banned try to enter, they might end up somewhere like Pluto. Like, say, Lucifer and Raphael obviously, Zachariah, and a few others I don't want the kids to meet.”

John, mildly reassured, turned into the kitchen – the “kids” were there, looking slightly insulted by Gabriel's words. Nothing new, then.

“I took the liberty to... explain a few things to your sons, Michael, and to your... friend?”

Gabriel gave an unsure look at Bobby, who had yet to let go of his shotgun and seemed a bit irritated, but that too, wasn't new.

Meanwhile, John was looking his children over, searching for wounds and other issues. Dean looked healthy enough, though a bit angry – at himself, at his brother, at John probably too, but there was a high chance he wouldn't say a word about it; John wouldn't, if it was him. Sam was looking sheepish and defensive at the same time, no surprise here, but since he hadn't yet started yelling at his father, said father wasn't going to complain. Yet.

“What kind of things?”

Before Gabriel could answer, Sam answered. His tone was a bit dry, perhaps a trifle aggressive.

“Oh, things like how you're an archangel, Dad, how Heaven and Hell have been planning the Apocalypse together for about a century, true vessels, and all these things you've never told us!”

In the corner of his eye, John saw Gabriel make a face, grab Bobby's arm and head for the door. His younger brother stage-whispered that they were going to take a holiday, somewhere like Mexico, somewhere where the Winchesters weren't restaging the explosive family issues of his own family.

Bobby tried to protest, but before he could finish his outraged statement that he wasn't going to let them alone to destroy his home, Gabriel was out of the house and flying the two of them somewhere far away and preferably sunny.

John focused back on his sons, preparing for the difficult argument that was certainly coming. He knew Dean would not oppose him openly, but still try to defend his brother – he had done the same many times, millenia ago, before Lucifer went too far... Not that Lucifer had ever noticed when his older brother wasn't necessarily against him every time.

Staying calm was the only way John knew how to handle Sam – not that his own Father's way had worked that well on Lucifer, but Sam wasn't Lucifer, at least in his life experience. The Winchester family was exactly the same as God's, there was no denying it, but they weren't... Nothing was ever written, and one person could have several destinies, he now liked to believe.

People couldn't change who they were, deep down, but it didn't mean they were stuck being the same forever. They could learn, and to an extent, they could change. As long as they had the potential to be more, all they had to do was to choose who they wanted to be. Humanity had taught him that.

Lucifer hadn't ever bothered making the choice, and the efforts, to change.

Sam could. And after having been one of the people who kick-started the Apocalypse, he certainly would – Dean would too, but change wasn't what he needed; what Dean needed, was the reassurance that he was worth something, despite having broken in Hell.

John wanted to sigh, but he had a feeling Sam would probably take it badly – he wasn't certain there was anything he could do that his second son wouldn't take badly, but again, perhaps he was too focused on the similarities with his own father and brother.

“Sam... I'm pretty sure Gabriel also told you I didn't remember all that while I was human.”

Or did he? That'd be very much like Gabriel not to mention it.

“Oh, he did! But archangel or not, he's also Loki, trickster god. He lies like we breathe. Besides, you might have lied to him. Not saying everything is your thing, isn't it?”

See, Gabriel? That's what you get for always fooling around. No one trusts you.

Then again, John surmised, no one trusted him either, and he hadn't been one to fool around. Not after Mary's death. Always grave. Never open to others, too. Taking it all upon himself.

That's what he got, he realized, for not letting anyone in.

Dean, always trying to pacify the discussions, got his brother's attention for about half a minute.

“Anna didn't remember either, Sam.”

Sam seemed to think about it, but it didn't last. Soon enough he was back to arguing – John could understand why; after all, Sam didn't know why John had kept everything to himself, since that was the point of the maneuver.

Didn't mean it didn't hurt for his sacrifices never to be acknowledged.

“Even if he didn't know about the Apocalypse, he still knew a lot about Azazel's plans, and he didn't think we deserved to know!!!”

John couldn't help snorting a bit in derision, this time – that, he knew, was why Sam always thought he didn't care, or whatever other reason he had come up with, but well... John couldn't control absolutely everything. There were times his desire to be considerate failed in front of his other feelings. Just like everyone else.

“And when, tell me, Sam, when was I supposed to tell you that the Regent of Hell wanted you to open a Gate? When was I supposed to inform you half your high school teachers had been possessed at a moment or another, and that it was the reason we were always moving, more than my hunting was? When I learned of it, perhaps? You were seven years old, Sam! I wasn't going to tell you that, you'd have been able to try and run away to keep us safe or some such bullshit!”

Sam obviously wanted to retort, but he apparently didn't find the words – John wondered if Lucifer would have chosen another way, if their Father had, just once, been more open with his own problems. But it wasn't a father's place to show his weaknesses to his children.

“When you're in my situation, Sam... You decide you'll wait until the kids are older, until they're adults... But then, you wonder, why not one more week? One more month? They shouldn't have to know, they don't have to bear that burden, not when you're so close to getting rid of the problem, of the bastard who started it all... Perhaps, if things go your way, the kids will never have to know. Never mind if you're the one who ultimately appear as the bad guy, if everyone is convinced you were a shitty father. At least you've kept the kids safe, and relatively hopeful for their future.”

What else could he say, really? He didn't want Sam to think it was all his fault – it wasn't, no, far from it, but the kid had to realize that John hadn't had much of a choice either.

“Then things go terribly down, and by the time you realize you don't have a choice anymore... You didn't even want to hear from me, Sam. And don't pretend I'm the only one who kept things from the others. I don't remember you being really honest about your psychic powers, until you didn't have another choice.”

“I was persuaded you'd take it badly! You were so against anything supernatural, I...!”

John interrupted him – it wasn't the time to go into that.

“First thing first, Sam, I'm not against everything supernatural, not now, not ever; only, I'm not naive enough to think it usually leads to anything other than problems. You can do good things with magic and other powers, sure; but most of the time, people don't. I'm wary, that's all. But you, you assumed I was, what, going to behead my son because he was having visions?”

Sam looked a bit uncomfortable, and didn't say anything. John hoped that hadn't been the case, because it'd be sad, really. He'd think that, at least, his children had known he loved them more than that.

But perhaps that had been wishful thinking, after all.

“Anyway, Sam, that's not the point. My point is, we all have reasons not to say everything, not to do what the others would want us to do. We have reasons, and they can be valid or not, but they still exist. So maybe, just maybe, you could stop thinking I'm always doing things only to destroy your life, and consider that, perhaps, I might be wanting to protect you?”

He didn't get an answer.

John sighed, and let the conversation drop. He looked at the door – he could take a look at how things were going, now that Lucifer was out – but didn't leave. Instead, he looked back at his sons, and hesitated.

Then he decided, why not? – and hugged them without a word. First Dean, then Sam. He took the opportunity to cleanse a bit of the demon blood influence on Sam, even if nothing could get rid of it that easily. It'd take a few days, perhaps.

John took a step back after that, and looked them over one more time – still needing to make sure they weren't hurt, that they were still alive, almost.

He gave them a poor smile.

“No matter what you think, boys... I'm glad you're both alive.”

He resigned himself to not getting an answer – that was the relationships he had built and he knew it. That was the result of his trying to keep them both alive.

And he wasn't going to pretend he'd do it any differently, given the very same situation, and without knowing what he knew now – just, knowing that, if anything, he had managed to keep them alive.

 


	19. Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to superpositionofemotions who offered to beta this story. You'll notice I haven't changed absolutely everything there, but still, most of it. Also, I follow a strict 3-pages-per-chapter limit, because reasons, so of course I have to be careful when I change things, but anyway...
> 
> And, since some other people might want to know, I'll also answer some things:  
> Yes, John, Gabriel and Castiel are hiding from the Host, since they don't know what Raphael revealed and what he keptto himself.  
> No, in this story at least, John can't just search all of London in a few seconds to find Amaimon, who's not hiding from angels in particular, but who is hiding in general. Whatever spells he's using, it must mask his presence to a quick search, if nothing else.  
> I write Michael or John depending on who's thinking ( Gabriel will obviously think "Michael" ), and on what Michael / John is doing at the moment. He'll always call himself John if his sons are around, but when they are not... depends on the situation, really.  
> Oh, and when I mention Spain - think of it as a now,-today situation.
> 
> ... I think that's it for now.

John pulled on a denim jacket – his leather spare jackets were too large now, and while he could probably arrange that problem with just a bit of magic, he wasn't as adept as Gabriel at meaninglessly using his powers. He didn't particularly want to focus on his clothes for now.

Speaking of which, the oldest son of God gave an annoyed look at his little brother, who was slouching on Bobby's desk, eyes fixed on the multiple phones there. FBI, police, U.S. Marshals, CDC and Health Department, for whenever / whatever a hunter needed, “official” call to a superior for example. John wasn't really comfortable leaving a trickster alone with the phones, but Gabriel was sensible enough not to endanger innocents by keeping the law enforcements busy when there could be an emergency...

Probably. With some luck, Gabriel would stick to one or two prank calls a day.

It's not like the other archangel wouldn't be able to find another phone to do it if John told him not to play with these ones while he was away.

Gabriel noticed he was being watched, looked away from the phones, and grinned at John.

“What, worried I'm going to play around?”

John only snorted at that.

Gabriel threw his frustration out with a dramatic shoulders-drop,-arms-open,-palms-to-the-sky.

“Aww, come on, Michael... I have to do something, or I'll get bored! The three mortals are out helping friends of theirs with an infestation of demons, Cassie is looking, pointlessly must I say, for Dad, and you're going to punch a few uglies in the face to try and get a meeting with Luci! Why do I have to deal with desk duty of all things?!”

Bobby had indeed received a call from Rufus, saying that a whole town had turned into some sort of demonic party. The kids had decided to go with him to deal with the issue. John had reluctantly let them go, too aware of the underlying tension, and with the promise that, should anything go even slightly wrong, Dean and Sam would call for Gabriel to come and rescue them.

Or for Michael, too, but it had been decided that John would search for Lucifer, to give him one last chance to cancel everything, to stop the Apocalypse before it went too far – not that John or Gabriel believed much in the idea, but Sam had been adamant, and well, they could always try, right? So they all knew he'd be busy for a while, and might not get there right away if they called for help.

Hence why Gabriel was on desk duty. He was both to answer the phones should another hunter need a little “official” help – Father help them, should it come to that – and to rush to the kids' side should Demonyville prove to be more of a challenge than expected. Also, even if the third archangel often played dumb, he could answer questions about how to get rid of this or that, in case some hunter encountered an unexpected monster or another problematic supernatural being.

Who knew, maybe the troublemaker would even enjoy himself, being actually useful...?

Besides...

John glanced at the nearest window, and rolled his eyes.

“I don't know, Gabriel. 'Might have something to do with the llama in the backyard.”

The animal was sleeping in the grass, looking right at home despite Bobby's earlier protests that no, his salvage yard was not a good place for a lama.

Gabriel looked puzzled for a moment – probably trying to remember which one of his latest temper tantrums had involved a lama. He blamed his volatile excesses on having to live with three humans, by the way.

“Right.”

He had wanted a llama. He had gotten his llama. Now he was paying the price, he guessed.

What had he wanted a llama for?

Michael gave him one last stern glare, and Gabriel rolled his eyes – see, he could do it, too!

“I know, I know! Don't feed the llama strawberries, answer the phone diligently, and fly to save your sons' asses as soon as a little demon scare them a bit too much...”

John didn't even bother with a retort.

As he left, Gabriel gave a speculative look at the llama in the backyard, who seemed lost in sleepy bliss. No one had ever said anything about changing the animal's wool color and pattern, right?

With a disturbingly precise feeling of impending esthetic doom, John walked out of Bobby's property, out of the anti-flying wards, and focused on his flight.

When he looked around him again, the archangel was standing in a dark corner of a busy London. Who said the Apocalypse only affected the USA? They clearly didn't get what “world” meant in “End of the World”.

Sure, Lucifer was a little busy with North America right now, especially as Sam was there, but it didn't mean the demons weren't playing anywhere else, and that wasn't even taking into account the freak events which would soon start – blood rain, and all the usual nightmare stuff.

Careful not to be under the british Men of Letters' radar, John let himself slip into the crowd. Living in London was difficult for supernatural beings these days, but the arrogant pricks thought too highly of themselves.

A supernatural being could live comfily, if cautiously, in the capital of England, for the very reason no Man of Letter would ever think there was a monster smart enough to escape them. Fools.

John had to give it to them, though. The pricks had lowered the number of supernatural incidents in Great Britain since the last time he had given the country a look – as Michael.

Only, they left a great number of civilian casualties behind them since there should be no witnesses. Ghosts, for example, couldn't be helped. Nothing to be proud of.

The French did as good. Perhaps a few more cases, but way less barbaric clean-ups. The Spanish were a bit disorganized, since the Church was the entity handling the supernatural over there. And they weren't quite up-to-date with the modern world, but at least they weren't taking out their own.

And so on, and so on. The Old World, especially Europe, was not as terrible as America when it came to dealing with the supernatural. Except, their long history also made for a whole different bag of shit to deal with on occasion.

The kind of shit John was looking for today.

Angels, fortunately, were low on the Men of Letter's alarm scale. As a result, it was pretty easy for Michael to move through London as a result, easier than it would be for a demon.

Especially a high-ranking old geezer like the one Michael was looking for right now.

Still, Amaimon had been living in England for, what, eighty-seven years now? – and the Men of Letters hadn't caught on. Evidence of the demon's intelligence, and his caution. His bloodlust was kept under check, counters to any sulfur proof of presence. These, all the things Amaimon had learned from the souls of the witches he had damned to Hell in the last two millennia.

The demon would certainly not appreciate having an archangel knocking at his door, drawing unwanted attention. Attention which would probably be enough to make sure that Amaimon would get Michael's message to Lucifer, unless he wanted him to alert the Men of Letters to his presence in their capital.

After that, whether or not Kid Brother would deign to answer was yet another question.

Not a question for right now, though. Right now...

Michael grabbed a squirrelly fellow before the vampire could disappear in an alley. The guy looked at him with wide eyes. Good. Someone with sense, for once. Made sense too, since, to survive under the Men of Letters' attention, the vampire had to be more than a bit clever.

Probably one of those “reformed” vampires who lived only on animal, or bagged blood. Had to be, to make it on this side of the Channel. Michael's new, human-turned-back-inhuman appreciation of the supernatural – that wasn't angelic – had him think that, in a way, the British supernatural population was not so bad – scarce, too, but it wasn't like there were that many benevolent monsters & company to begin with.

“I'd rather not have to behead you, vampire, so you are simply going to answer my question, and I'll let you go: where can I find Amaimon?”

The guy didn't seem very eager to confide in his brand new, heavenly-shiny acquaintance, so Michael just gave him a hard look.

“Don't play that game with me. Considering how particular the living conditions are in this country. It's obvious that everyone's living in a tight community, same species or not. So even if he's a demon, I can tell you know his address. You wouldn't want me to draw the wrong kind of attention onto you, would you?”

Michael could, after all, fly out whenever he wanted, long before the Men of Letters got there. The vampire could not.

The vampire gulped, his eyes darting wildly at the passersby – as if only one word would bring British Buffy, after his ass.

Michael almost went back to menacing him just for that, but the vampire finally saw the light, and gave him the address. The archangel smiled sardonically, tilted an imaginary hat, and flew right over to Amaimon's place.

Or, actually, two houses down the street, since paranoia was the new trend these days in Great Britain for supernatural beings, and it was obvious that the demon had alarms for any unconventional means of travelling around his home.

The archangel looked at the place for a few seconds before knocking on the door. Fancy, and expensive. Amaimon had luxurious taste, it seemed. Then again, the guy had been King of the Crossroads a few centuries back, and look who held his office now? Crowley, who was just as much of a pricey princess – Gabriel's words, not his.

A woman – succubus, in fact – opened the door...

And immediately took a step back, recognizing the visitor for what he was.

“Please, don't... don't harm us!!! We're just living here without doing damage!”

Michael doubted that. The demon and the monsters he was sheltering probably were living tamely compared to those in the States, but it was unlikely that there wasn't even the slightlest tiny bit of depravation going on in this house. But he wasn't here to fight, and, he guessed, the occupants of the house were doing efforts to keep their instincts in check.

“Take me to Amaimon, and we'll avoid that.”

The succubus hesitated a moment. She looked at the busy street outside, then back at Michael, at the power emanating from him, and the promise that he would do whatever was necessary to get what he wanted. Decided the risk of letting him in wasn't worth the sure danger of refusing.

She lead him to a private office on the second floor, where the demon was busy with a couple of werewolves – don't ask, don't tell – when Michael introduced himself. The monsters scampered away, and Amaimon glared at him from his meatsuit – a young man, steel eyes, black hair.

There was a hint of fear, as expected, in that glare – and John didn't want to acknowledge the other kind of glint he could see there too. Likely there only to make him uncomfortable.

“Archangel...”

The demon had hissed, as he slithered to his visitor – too close.

Michael took a step back. A smirk appeared on the demon's face.

“Michael. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The demon was powerful enough to hold his own, even against the first archangel, long enough to get away, at least. And since the visitor had yet to attack him, Amaimon was confident it wouldn't happen – not as long as they had something to bargain over.

Michael sneered at the chosen words, but didn't deny. The matter of the visit was more important.

“Go and tell my brother, demon, that I wish to speak with him.”

Amaimon arched an eyebrow.

“And why would I do that?”

The walls started to tremble – the whole building was emitting too much energy suddenly.

“Alright, I'll do it! Stop that before the Men of Letters notice!”

Michael smirked.

The next moment, he was back at Bobby's. He walked in, and noticed a ringing phone, quickly followed by a drawl from Gabriel.

“Big Brother's not in office right now, Sweetie... Oh, that's you, Dean? Wait, what...? Don't move, I'm coming. Your father just came back, too, and... Ah, no, sorry. Afraid he's taken for now.”

John, surprised, followed Gabriel's eyes; a piece of paper was slowly appearing at his feet.

He looked back at his brother, who winced as if in apology.

“I believe you've got an appointment with the Devil, Michael. As for me... Horseman to deal with, you know how it goes!”

 


	20. Just don't start the Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who's all "But Lucifer is just a poor misundertood guy", let me remind you that when "poor misundertood" humans go on a killing spree because they didn't get what they wanted, we call them mass murderers, terrorists, and sometimes psychopaths.

Michael picked up the folded message at his feet carefully. This was witch magic, which meant Lucifer had a coven working for him right now. Good thinking on Castiel's part, to have completely shielded Dean and Sam from magical search, and not only from angelic search, then.

Knowing Lucifer, there were fifty / fifty odds that the message itself was cursed.

Michael unfolded the sheet of paper. No hexes jumped at his throat, no dreadful curse tried to eat him alive. He guessed that was a point for good behavior for Lucifer, then. Though, if someone else had picked the message up, he wouldn't bet they would have walked out of it without a scratch. For all he knew, his brother had had the witches make the message Michael-proof only.

Just to be petty, you know.

Michael briefly thought of getting Gabriel to test it out, but the other archangel had already left Bobby's place. Besides, that would have been petty too – then again, the annoying brat had killed Dean over a hundred times, so...

He arched an eyebrow at the drawing of a key – old, rusty, and surprisingly detailed. There was nothing else in the message... Two possibilities: either Lucifer was messing with him, or the drawing itself was a magical item.

Michael breathed gently over the key. As if a layer of dust had just been blown off the drawing, magical miasma rose from the paper. The archangel smirked a bit. Old school coven. Satanists from northern Europe. John had beheaded one a few years ago; her spellbooks were somewhere in Bobby's labyrinth of books now.

He snapped his fingers, and the message started folding itself back, more and more, into the shape of an actual key, even taking a metallic tint as it did. The key then fell right into his open hand.

It felt brittle, and it was still paper, but he knew it would open the door he needed.

Michael looked around, in search of a door – it didn't really matter which, not with this key – when he suddenly stopped, shook his head, and headed out. Bobby would not appreciate him opening a dimensional door in his house, when he wasn't exactly sure of what was waiting for him on the other side. It was safer – for the house, and, let's be honest, for John too – to use a random door somewhere else.

He flew to the nearest diners, startled two teenagers making out as he did so – “Dude, where did he come from?!” – and closed the door of the toilet stall behind him. No point scaring the shit out of the two kids by using the key right in front of them.

Michael took a long breathe. He wasn't sure this was a good idea... Then again, Lucifer's choice of place to meet was making it sure that they'd both walk out of their reunion alive, and without having destroyed the world as a side-effect. A dimensional room created by a coven of witch negated any physical, magical or spiritual power, any difference between the people who walked in, leaving only their true face to be seen. It also made useless any attempt on one's life. Time and Space were static in there. You walked out as you had walked in – or, if you chose not to, you could just stay in there for all eternity without dying, but that soon became boring.

This was certainly the only way to talk to Lucifer without fearing to be stabbed in the back as he'd leave... Or the other way around too, he guessed. Lucifer probably didn't trust him much more than Michael trusted his brother.

Wonder why.

The key fit into the lock of the door perfectly, except that when Michael drew the door open again, there weren't two teenagers trying to eat each other's face – they had probably gone to look for a less frequented place by now, but you get it – on the other side anymore.

The door of the toilet stall certainly hadn't opened back on the restrooms. Instead, black and grey floor tiles, dark grey painted walls with dozens of shelves another door on the other side of the room, and a large crystal chandelier hovering above a circle of black armchairs.

Lucifer sitting in one of these.

Michael shook his head, and left the toilet stall – his brother did raise an eyebrow when he saw what had been on the other side of the magical door. He didn't walk too fast, nor to slowly; Lucifer would probably deduce whatever he wanted out of his stance and behavior anyway, but he wasn't going to give him more ammunition by looking pressed or nervous.

Not that he was, of course.

He stopped just behind the armchair that faced his brother's.

He didn't sit down. Instead, Michael planted his hands on the armchair's backrest, hunching down slightly, and looked Lucifer in the eyes.

“The Apocalypse.”

The Devil gave him a half-amused, half-irritated smile, and stood up from his own armchair. Michael watched him warily, as he moved around the circle of armchairs. No wounds could be inflicted in there, he knew that, but last time they had been so close to one another...

Michael had thrown his first brother down into the Cage.

And try as he might, he couldn't see Lucifer getting this close to him right now except to get him tense. The other archangel was certainly not going to try and hug him.

Lucifer stopped just behind Michael.

“Why, yes, Michael... So happy to see you too...”

Michael refrained from rolling his eyes – too much time with Gabriel – let go of the backrest, and turned around, to face his brother. They found themselves uncomfortably close, but neither of them wanted to take a step back – realistically, Michael had an armchair in the way.

After a moment of intense staring, Michael decided he'd just take a step to the left, and then would turn a bit to look back at his brother, since Lucifer didn't seem in the mood to be pleasant and do the logical thing.

“Do you really want to do that?”

“Do what? Stare at you without a word for the next five millennia? Not particularly, no.”

But too stubborn to be the one to move away, right? Go figure...

“Destroying the world, I mean.”

Lucifer gave him a funny look, as if he was waiting for the end of the joke, but since Michael had nothing more to say than that, he finally answered, all sarcasm and attitude.

“Why, you don't want to fight anymore, then?”

Michael snorted a bit. As always. He was the bad guy, he was the oppressive brother, and Lucifer hadn't ever done anything wrong. Well, gues what? He was sick with always being blamed for everything that went sideway in the world.

“I never wanted to fight you or to kill you, dumbass! But you're not exactly leaving me a choice, are you? What do you want from me, in the end? If you get down there and start murdering everyone, am I supposed to stand by and let you do that because you're my brother? We both know you won't stop what you started now, and I'm the one who'se to blame?”

Lucifer squinted at him.

“You're going to do exactly what Father told you to, and he told you to kill me at the End of Time. You don't give a damn about the humans you'll be 'saving'. You're just obeying orders, like a good little soldier, even if it means you have to kill me!!! You're exactly like Dad; 'follow the rules, Lucifer, or else...'!”

Michael stayed silent for a moment. He had known all along that it was what his brother thought of him, but to hear it said out loud... It was almost comical.

A sneer escaped him.

“Because you aren't playing by Dad's rules, perhaps? He said you'd Fall, and get free, and start ravaging the world, and look at you! You want to go against Him, and yet here you are, doing exactly what he said you'd do!!! Perhaps you should consider that He wasn't sealing your fate with his words, but merely saying facts. That He just knew you better than you know yourself! That perhaps, it was more of a warning than a heartless punishment for something you didn't completely cause!!!”

Michael's eyes flickered to his brother's arm, where the Mark had been, millennia ago. Perhaps Lucifer wasn't entirely to blame for what he had become... But the mark wasn't there anymore, and the second archangel wasn't exactly making efforts to change back into someone better. He was still responsible of his actions, just like anyone else.

“But did you listen? Nooo... You'd rather be an asshole and blame it all on Father, on the humans, on me, when the truth is that you just couldn't bear with being taught a lesson! Dad asked us to love the humans more than we loved him, but He knew well enough that all of us who bowed didn't particularly like them for all that. He knew that feelings such as these can't simply be redirected or ordered. What he wanted was simply to teach us a lesson, that because we are the most powerful beings after him, because we are angels, we aren't necessarily better than humans. Humility, you've ever heard of that, Lucifer? Apparently not!!! And you, what did you do? Not only you didn't bow to them, but you also went and twisted them into demons, you started slaughtering them!!!”

Because, let's be honest, it wasn't so much Lucifer's disobedience that had gotten him kicked out of Heaven, but rather his violent reaction to having been told off. Plenty of angels didn't particularly like humans, but they didn't go around murdering them on sight...

“I wanted to prove to Father that He as wrong about them!!!”

This got Michael to laugh. This was so freaking ridiculous! Not even able to see why...

“What you did, Lucifer, was taking one of His creations and destroying it! You didn't even stop to think that, perhaps, Father was seeing something in them thatwe couldn't! But noooo, again, Dad was wrong, and you were right, you had to be! You...”

Michael stopped talking before he said something he'd regret, something that would send his brother into real anger, and sighed.

“Listen, Lucifer... You don't have to like them, but it doesn't mean you should wipe them out either. Just... live, like we all did, without minding them. Don't go on with the Apocalypse, and I won't have a reason to kill you! I won't even have a reason to come after you and get your ass back into the Cage! Father said you'd start the Apocalypse, and then I'd kill you...”

Lucifer sneered, and took three steps back, looking his brother up and down.

“So what? I just don't start the Apocalypse, that's what you're saying?”

He didn't seem to believe it, and more than that, he seemed personally offended by the suggestion.

“Exactly.”

Lucifer stared at his brother for a good minute, before breaking into a laugh too. It was dry and cruel, but laughter nonetheless. Michael could already tell what his brother's answer would be.

When the laugh stopped, Lucifer's face fell into an unpleasant grimace.

“Certainly not! Humans are disgusting, shameful and shameless animals, and they have to pay for what they cost me! I will destroy them, Brother, because without them, I wouldn't have lost Father, or you, or the Host!!! They took everything from me, and they'll pay! But if you don't want to fight, Michael, then be my guest. Watch the show, as they'd say!”

Michael shook his head in disgust.

“Father might have said I'd have to kill you... But you're the one asking me to choose between ending you and destroying the world. And you wonder why Heaven rejected you?”

Lucifer, of course, only heard what he wanted.

“Why did you come to ask me to stop, if you never believed I'd change my mind? Why would I want to stop, when no one ever believed in me?!?”

Michael wouldn't deny he had been pessimistic about this reunion, but he still wanted to throw a chair into his brother's face, right now, just like that, even if it wouldn't do anything.

“Surprise me, then! Prove Father wrong! Prove me wrong, and stop this! Just... come home.”

But there was no way Lucifer, the Devil, the stubborn-ass-who-never-did-as-he-was-told-because-he-was-a-rebellious-brat, would ever admit he was wrong. The second archangel spat on the floor, and headed for the other door.

As Lucifer walked away, John mumbled in anger at his brother.

“Sam did that too when he was a kid, but guess what, asshole? He freaking grew up!”

The door closed behind Lucifer, and John kicked an armchair. Way to waste his time, really! He had told Sam that it would go this way, but the kid hadn't wanted to believe him... As if their numerous conflicts when Dean and him were growing up hadn't taught him anything...

But John guessed that Sam wanted to believe Lucifer would change his mind if given a chance.

As he walked back into the toilet stall, the door slammed close, and the paper key burned away.

 


	21. War could be trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The SPN wiki should have a death toll on the pages for each season/episode...

When John walked back into Bobby's house, he couldn't help but notice how disturbingly silent everything was.

Gabriel was staying around, so it should be anything but quiet. The problematic archangel was just that, problematic, and the fact that the llama in Bobby's backyard had somehow turned golden while John had been away told a lot.

John's heart clenched a bit.

They had decided that Gabriel would go as backup if anything happened to the humans... And say what you want about Michael's little brother, Gabriel was reliable... ish. That is, reliable enough to do what needed to be done, even if often in the most ridiculous way possible.

And Gabriel had gone, to take care of whatever was giving Dean, Sam and Bobby difficulties, just as John had left for his rendezvous with Lucifer – simply thinking about it was making him cringe.

Except, that had been some time ago already, and John would have expected Gabriel to reach out on sub-angel radio, as they had taken to call it – if not for everyone to be back already. Though Dean wouldn't have left the impala behind to use Angel Airflight, he guessed, but Gabriel, at least, should be back by now.

Yet he wasn't.

Something must have happened. Something bad. Something that'd prevent Gabriel from...

Wait a moment. Breathe. Calm down.

John checked his new phone – only their little team had the number for now, he had yet to deal with his former phones. No message. Couldn't reach out on sub-angel radio either, wouldn't want to distract Gabriel in the middle of battle.

Well. Maybe they were all busy fighting off demons, and that was the reason they couldn't exactly waste time checking in. Like, it didn't have to be that terrible a situation. More like, only very busy with a lot of small fries – again, Gabriel alone could probably fry the whole town easily, but that'd include both the demons, and the innocents. So, perhaps they were just very, very busy, and hadn't thought to contact him.

Only one way to find out – actually, two, but only one from a distance. He was keeping the second one as last resort.

The phone rang in vain for a good twenty seconds before switching to voicemail, and John gritted his teeth. He didn't want to know what could keep an archangel from answering his bloody phone.

Then again, busy. Maybe he hadn't had the time to get rid of whichever small-time, insignificant demon was trying to get at him this time, to answer the phone in time. Twenty seconds wasn't that long a ringing time, after all.

Moreover, he could still call Bobby, Sam, and Dean, should he remain unable to contact his brother.

John tried again, and this time, he heard the usual click of someone answering. Great.

“'s John. Lucifer's an asshole, but we knew that already. How are things on your side?”

He heard a scream ringing in the background noise, somewhere far enough from the other cellphone that he wasn't actually worried for Gabriel's safety – besides, it wasn't as if a lowly demon could do anything worth mentioning to an archangel.

But no voice.

No answer.

“Gabriel?”

Still nothing, except the sound of the cellphone being shaken violently for some reason. What the hell was going on? John had to resist just storming out of the house, flying all the way to Colorado.

But no. He couldn't do that. He had to wait, check whether or not they actually needed his help, then go – or not. He had to prove to Sam – Dean too, but it wasn't really like Dean cared, while Sam... anyway – that he trusted them with doing their job and didn't think they were useless without him.

Weirdly enough, going if there wasn't an actual need for his help would probably piss Sam off. How did he know this? Easy. Everything John did had the potential to piss Sam off. If he didn't wait, he'd be accused of not trusting his own sons. If he waited and something was actually going on, he'd be accused of not caring. If he waited and nothing was going on, he probably wouldn't be accused of anything, but Sam would remember. And would accuse him of not caring later on, when the occasion would present itself, in another situation where he wouldn't manage to get there on time.

John wasn't resenting Sam for that – well, maybe a bit, but what do you want? He had feelings too – because he knew why the kid thought so. And he wasn't going to deny that he hadn't been the best father in the world. That'd be lying.

Still, he felt he had a right to at least resent the circumstances that had made their family such as it was today – which were probably his fault anyway, because he hadn't been very enthusiastic about keeping Azazel grounded, back when he was still just Michael, and not yet John Winchester.

Not entirely his fault, perhaps. But his fault enough for him not to have any right to complain more than just a bit.

A voice finally greeted him from the other side of the phone call, and John sighed in relief.

Not Gabriel's, which was odd considering this was Gabriel's phone – choosing the model had been a terrible affair, with the archangel being pouty and as complicated as a teenage girl would be over buying shoes, and neither John nor Bobby were willing to even think back on it.

But, Dean's voice, and that was good enough.

That told him that Dean, if anything, was still alive.

“ _Dad?”_

“Yeah, that's me. Lucifer's an idiot. What's happening on your end?”

“ _Oh, wait a moment...”_

The sound of struggling, and the cellphone probably being knocked against a wall or a piece of furniture – definitely not a person, because people weren't hard and didn't make that sound – but the call wasn't disconnected, and John didn't rush outside for a quick flight as a consequence.

“ _Sorry about that. Bastard trying to bite me. Seriously, why biting? I mean, come on... Okay, that aside, Dad, I think we need your help.”_

A stone. In his stomach. Several stones, actually. A freaking scree rolling down his throat and tumbling down into his stomach.

No. Don't think like that. Dean wasn't sounding really stressed, frightened, or wounded. A bit out of breath, perhaps, but if the whole town had been possessed, it wasn't exactly surprising. Who knew, maybe Gabriel was pretending to be Midas, again, and turning everything to gold, only to watch as chaos would unleash again. That sounded a bit irresponsible, and frankly insensible, after what had most likely happened in the town, even for Gabriel – then again, John hadn't seen his brother in a few millennia, now, and it wasn't that long since they had been reunited. Perhaps Gabriel had changed, and not for the better – though, he guessed, there were worse ways of changing personality-wise than simply becoming even more irresponsible, and totally insensible.

And, even if Gabriel wasn't out doing something stupid, there were a lot of reasons why Dean could want his help, and that didn't include severe injuries and / or unnecessary deaths.

“What happened? Which Horseman was it, to begin with?”

Death, Michael could reason with. Or at least try to cooperate so that they'd find a way to walk around Lucifer's tricky control of the Horseman.

Except Death hadn't been called yet, John was sure of that – a slaughter that size would hardly go unnoticed. And the other Horsemen weren't quite as sympathetic.

“ _Well. We're not really sure what happened, actually. Sam called Gabriel as soon as he realized we weren't dealing with actual demons, but with something that could mess with our heads. That is, there were probably one or two demons around anyway, if the biting bastard is any indication, but mostly we were seeing black eyes where there were none. Except Gabriel never showed up. We dealt with War anyway, but it certainly would have been quicker with him. Fewer dead people, I guess. Then we went to look for him. Sam thought he might have ended up on the wrong side of the town or whatever. And, uh...”_

War. Freaking War. Of course – no point trying to rely on Father's words for the chronology of the Apocalypse, because everything kind of happened everywhere at the same time, whenever someone wanted to start shit. Utter chaos. The Bible gave something akin to a chronology only because in most cases you have to choose to say something first, or you end up saying nothing at all.

“You got rid of War? Like, his ring and all?”

Gabriel and John had warned the kids about what to look for, whenever they thought about something, but there were so many different things, maybe they hadn't remembered everything. And taking out War, without taking away his ring, was the same as not taking him out at all.

“ _Erh, yeah... I mean, we have the ring. War... kinda snuck out on us two minutes ago, while I was dealing with the biting bastard. But since he doesn't have the ring anymore...”_

John sighed. Not the best-case scenario, but still way better than most scenarios.

“Most of his power is gone, yeah. Most of it.”

War could still do damage, if he walked away and they didn't find him, since he had knowledge. Knowledge of a long time ago, the kind Michael himself had – oh, the Horseman had had a field day watching as Lucifer and he started fighting more and more, and that... that Michael wasn't sure he could forgive. Even without his powers, War could be trouble.

“ _Anyway. That's not what we need you for, Dad. Just, you know... I don't know what happened, but Gabriel is out. I mean, out like Castiel was when the feathered douchebags came down for him and took him away. There's this dude, sitting on a chair in the local church, and he's not Gabriel. He doesn't speak English, and he's freaking out at the world, and we don't know what to do with him.”_

John cringed. There. That was what he meant by “War could be trouble”. Because War knew shit.

“That freaking Horseman probably had a few angel-detector sigils set up around the town, with demons watching. He must have caught Gabriel just after he arrived, and forced him out of his vessel. Not really a problem, if we forget the fact that Gabriel has probably been sent right back into Heaven, into Raphael's hands.”

Michael doubted that Raphael would hurt their brother, but he could certainly try and contain him. Perhaps even try and talk Gabriel into changing sides – good luck with that, though.

“I'm coming. If only to check that Gabriel has effectively been expulsed, and nothing worse. And, because I can probably speak whatever language Gabriel's vessel is used to.”

“ _Yeah. See you right now.”_

John hanged up, and moved to leave Bobby's house.

He wondered mildly how old exactly his brother's vessel could be, considering that the pagan gods had known him by that face for, oh, a few millennia now. No way Gabriel hadn't had his vessel enhanced, to maintain its integrity all that time – especially since Gabriel didn't have a true vessel, and the man was more than likely one of Michael's default vessels, or, to put it another way, one of Sam, Dean, and John's ancestors.

John appeared only a few meters away from the town church, and made his way inside without looking at the bodies in the street. He didn't want to think about the damages War had already caused, not right now, not when he couldn't do anything to erase it.

The frightened vessel was sitting, shivering, in a corner of the nave. The man's eyes immediately settled on John, probably able to see who he was right away. After five to six millennia as a recipient to an archangel, it wasn't exactly surprising. Especially if the man's body had been enhanced to bear the pressure of an incompatible vessel-archangel link – Raphael tended to use hosts from one of the daughters of Cain's family line, but they never lasted long; Gabriel had had to possess one of Michael's, and have him enhanced, for him to last so long.

John walked to the man, their eyes locked. He could hear Sam and Bobby arguing somewhere close, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. He ignored the body lying under one of the pews.

The man's voice was low and small, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear him.

“ _Where's Gabriel?”_

There was a plea in there. Something desperate.

“ _He had promised. He had promised I'd never have to feel anything ever again. He had promised.”_

Ancient Nordic. John didn't know what had happened to the man, back when he was still truly alive, but Gabriel had certainly approached him with a promise of making the pain stop.

Suddenly two hands seized John's head from behind, and he found himself unable to turn around, to fight back. A terrible pressure against his mind, anger and hatred woven together.

War's voice in his ear, low. Only a whisper.

“Michael, my dear... So unexpected.”

 


End file.
